Through the Past, Darkly
by lithiumm
Summary: "There is no absolute truth and no true love - only a plan of your own design and the players who make it happen." In 1943, two students met at Hogwarts and set a plan in motion that would change the course of history. Rated M for language, violence, body horror, substance use/abuse, sexual themes, dubious consent... AU. Dark. Strong female characters. TR/LVxOC
1. I: Freedom

Chapter I: As the Wizarding community circulates rumors of the Dark Lord's return, Dumbledore makes a visit to Azkaban to release a curious prisoner.

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PART I

I.  
Freedom  
[Azkaban Prison | August 1995]

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Azkaban prison, that hulking fortress of stone and solitude, braces itself against the pounding waves. A storm was raging outside, which almost prevents Albus Dumbledore, headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, from reaching the place without becoming soaked to the bone. Waiting in the small dark reception area for him is Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, and a burly bailiff fumbling with a large ring of ancient iron keys. Fudge looks relieved at Dumbledore's arrival, but his smile is short-lived. Soon he's narrowing his eyes at the headmaster.

"You know Albus, the day will eventually come when you can't get exactly what you want whenever you ask for it." Fudge's bitterness refuses to be masked.

"Oh this isn't about me, Cornelius. I'm sure you know the history of this case, the mishandling of evidence, the utter disregard of proper procedure..."

"Yes yes I've been informed..." Fudge says grumpily as they follow the bailiff up the stairwell. The rain lashes through the glassless windows, forming muddy puddles on the stone floors. Filthy place—lit by torches, whose flames were reflected in the pools at their feet creating the illusion of walking through fire. They turn down a long hallway lined with iron bars. Many of the prisoners are asleep, or just lying there, a few leer at Fudge and Dumbledore as they pass. They stop at a cell a little more than halfway to the end of the hall. Albus approaches the bars. The withered woman inside is motionless, staring at a point just over his shoulder.

"Miss Spektor? Victoria?" Dumbledore says, looking her straight in the eyes. No motion, no recognition. Again he says her name. Still nothing. He waves his hands, but her gaze does not follow. She's crouched on the ground, charcoal hair hanging limply to her knees. "We've come to talk with you. Have you got a moment?"

"Oh yeah?" The woman grunts softly, shifting her gaze ever so slightly. "I've got nothing but time. What's on your mind?" She inquires, still as a stone statue, her eyes dim in the flickering light. Albus sizes up the woman uneasily, apparently now doubting his plan. But he carries on.

"Your case was reopened due to mishandling of evidence and lack of proper criminal procedure." Dumbledore reports. Spektor stares at him blankly. "And you've been found innocent. Or, well, evidence was insufficient to prove you guilty. However you prefer to look at it. At any rate, you're free to go."

"Is this some kind of sick joke?" She spits, rising to her feet and dragging her shackled feet towards the bars that separate her from the two men. The chains cut deep groves in the dirt-caked floor.

"Seems like it to me." Fudge sighs languidly, "But it is true. You are...innocent in the eyes of the court...We're releasing you into the custody of Albus Dumbledore, who will be your guardian until the court-appointed period of supervision elapses."

Victoria Spektor looks from the portly Minister of Magic to the tall, silver-bearded Headmaster of Hogwarts. Whatever they were playing at doesn't matter too much to her, to be honest. All she can think about is that she's being given a second chance. Whether she deserves one is irrelevant.

"Albus, I think you're the one making a grave mistake here." Fudge says.

"Perhaps I am." Dumbledore motions for the bailiff to unlock Spektor's cell, and the shackles around her ankles. As soon as the chains drop to the floor she stretches her arms above her head in a great sweeping motion, as if awaking from a long sleep. After adjusting her grubby tunic, she walks stiffly from her cell and down the hall, flanked by Dumbledore and Fudge. Along the way the prisoners still locked away in their cells catcall, and in response she brazenly brandishes her middle finger, upon which is a gold ring with a black stone set in the center, glinting in the torchlight.

* * *

From the North Sea to a sleepy London borough in the late August pre-dawn. A warm wind was stirring the hedgerows as Dumbledore and Victoria "V." Spektor approached a shabby rowhouse. Barely a soul out. Not a light on in the other homes that line the incongruously well-kept streets. Albus taps the black painted door with his wand and it creaks open. Inside is damp, dark, and she follows him deep into the bowels of the place, the floorboards sighing under their careful footsteps. They descend a rickety set of stairs into the kitchen, and Albus puts the kettle on. The sun's just coming up, not that either of them would know it, being that there are no windows down there, and all the others in the place are hung with thick drapery. Spektor eases herself down into one of the stiff-backed wooden chairs at the kitchen table. She was experiencing a bit of sensory overload. Having been chained to a wall for forty-some-odd years, you don't often get a change in scenery. Not to mention she's still in mild shock as to her sudden change in luck, if you could call it that. While the kettle boils, Albus is busying himself at the fire, placing a fresh log on the pile and lighting it with a minuscule flick of his wand. She takes a long, deep breath, filling her lungs with steam and woodsmoke.

"What am I supposed to do now?" Spektor abruptly speaks, causing Dumbledore to jump. Her voice is gravelly, and much harsher than he remembers. She coughs into her palm.

"Well, since the court has appointed me your guardian, I thought it might be a good idea for you to fill one of the vacant posts at Hogwarts…" There's a deep, wide silence between them, during which Spektor blinks at the old man as if this is just another element of the elaborate joke she's found herself the butt of. "I thought you could be the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor." Dumbledore says, sitting down across from her after setting down a teapot and two cups. She can't help but laugh. It's colder, dryer, than he remembers.

"Excuse me, but are you _mad_?" She says, her voice cracking. "I've been locked up for a lifetime in Azkaban...and you're going to have me...teach kids…Defense Against the Dark Arts of all things?"

"I trust you're an expert on the subject." Dumbledore says pleasantly.

"How can one be an expert when they've spent the majority of their lives in prison? You seem to forget I was arrested when I was…how old…nineteen? I…don't remember…" She frowns, realizing as well that she doesn't know how old she is currently. "What are you playing at?" She narrows her eyes.

"In these difficult and dangerous times, it's important to have the best faculty instructing our students, to prepare them adequately for what they will face..." Dumbledore says, stirring milk into his tea with a small silver spoon. "Your expertise would be invaluable for our cause."

"Naturally." She twists the ring on her middle finger, a nervous tick, and looks down in her lap. "You've got no other options, I take it? At the end of your rope, so to speak?"

"Oh I wouldn't say that." Dumbledore says, frowning. "But you could prove very helpful, if you were inclined to assist me. He Who Must Not Be Named is growing stronger by the day. It's only a matter of time..."

"And if I decline..."

"I think that would be most unwise..."

"Of course." She nods stiffly. "I'll do what I must." Dumbledore was looking for a much more promising attitude, but he's got to take what he can get. He extends his hand for a shake, and she begrudgingly takes it, her grip listless, her eyes cast down.

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A/N: Thank you for reading! If you continue to read, please review. As a novice writer, all feedback is greatly appreciated!


	2. I: Freedom?

Chapter 2: Dumbledore's new acquisition is introduced to the Order of the Phoenix to mixed reviews. However, nobody seems too concerned an Azkaban prisoner with a life sentence will be teaching children Defense Against the Dark Arts.

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II.  
Freedom?  
[Number 12 Grimmauld Place | August 1995]

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The next morning, V. Spektor awakes on a musty velvet couch in the shuttered living room of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. She remembers this room from a social gathering she once attended with her family, back when her family did such things, like leave the house and converse with others. All those pure-bloods in a room, if someone blew the place up there'd be no more left. She remembers hiding in the attic, playing exploding snap with Lestrange. He would never leave her alone—it was almost unendurable. She hears footsteps on the stairs and incoherent mumbling in the hall. Reluctantly she ventures out of the living room and down the narrow set of stairs to the kitchen, where breakfast is being served. As soon as she enters, the entire room falls silent. She turns to leave, but stops in her tracks once Albus calls out to her.

"Good morning, Victoria. Please join us. I've saved you a seat." He gestures for her to take the empty place next to him at the long kitchen table. She cringes at the use of her mother's name. There's literally nothing in the world she wants to do less than join this lot for breakfast. But the food smells incredible, so her stomach wins.

"Who dug up that old thing?" Ron Weasley asks, turning towards Hermione and Harry, his mouth full of eggs.

"V. Spektor." Sirius Black says, overhearing him. "Honestly, why Dumbledore wants more Death Eaters in the Order is beyond me..." He's referring to Severus Snape, of course.

"Ex-Death Eater, I'm sure." Hermione says, eyes widening with her classic skepticism.

"Yeah sure—just look at her. I was on the same cell block as her in Azkaban. They say she's possessed or something. Before I got there, I heard she drove her neighbor to kill himself just by _talking_ to him…" But before Sirius can elaborate, he catches sight of his knife, which has begun to levitate, it's blade pointing at him in a rather threatening manner. He glances over to where the subject of their conversation was sitting, and she was looking directly at him, her eyes dull and unblinking. Sirius shivers. "Don't look in her eyes. I hear that's how she gets to you." He whispers, and quickly gets up from his seat. Spektor's gaze is locked on him until he exits, and then turns her attention back to the buttered toast on her plate.

After the meal, the members of Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix convene in the living room. The doors are shut to prevent the young ones from listening in, but that doesn't stop Fred and George Weasely from trying to use their Extendable Ears. They get a good ten minutes-worth of information before Severus Snape confiscates them and orders the twins to clear out.

"Now where was I..." Dumbledore paces back and forth before the group of witches and wizards, sitting around on couches and occasional chairs. Then he remembers he was discussing the Ministry of Magic's flat-out refusal to recognize that the Dark Lord has returned, that he killed that young Hufflepuff Cedric Diggory back in May, and has steadily been gathering his followers around him once more.

"They've all got their heads in the bloody ground." Growls Alastor Moody. "I'll tell ya, Dumbledore, I've had it up to here with the lot of 'em." Kingsley Shacklebolt nods in agreement. It's been a tough time at the Ministry indeed. "Anyway, I reckon Fudge isn't likely to do you any more favors for a while after what you pulled to get _her_ outta Azkaban..." Moody glares at Spektor, who's sitting in a chair on the fringes of the group. Moody seems to be one of the only ones in the group who has any idea who Spektor is, besides Dumbledore. He didn't consider this, and makes a hasty introduction.

"Dear me, I've forgotten to introduce our newest member. Everyone, this is Victoria Spektor. She'll be joining the Order on a special assignment." Dumbledore says, gesturing to the waif lounging in a chair to his left. She stares at the floor, ignoring the group that has directed its collective attention at her.

"Oh my, what a pleasure." Sirius Black says sarcastically. Spektor looks up at him, her lips curling into a sneer.

"Come on now Sirius, it's important that we all work together—each member has an important contribution..." Molly Weasely pipes up, scolding him as though he's one of his own children.

"Yeah? And what's my contribution? This house? She's not only free, but _trusted_ to go on a special assignment? You've got to be _kidding_ me." Sirius rants, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. "Besides, I refuse to work with Death Eaters." He snubs his nose at her and looks away.

"I'm not a Death Eater." Spektor says flatly.

"What's that mark on your arm then?" Black shouts, pointing rudely.

"Settle down, Black. You don't know what you're talking about." Spektor says, shifting in her chair.

"I don't know...what?...Are you..." He stammers, frustration building, until he just gives up, sinking back into the couch, sighing loudly.

"You weren't a Death Eater?" Dumbledore asks, casting Spektor a look of surprise. "That is the dark mark on your arm though, if I'm not mistaken..."

"Good lord, Albus – you of all people should know what the Dark Mark looks like." She rolls her eyes and pulls up the sleeve of her grubby prison tunic. On her right forearm is the image of a snake, curled about itself in an infinite loop, biting it's own tail. "Me, a Death Eater. That's a good one."

"Hm. You'll have to forgive me..." Dumbledore says, still perplexed. The rest of the room is confused as well. Maybe they had it all wrong after all.

* * *

Severus Snape corners Spektor in the hallway after the meeting as she's attempting to slip up the stairs to the attic. He opens his mouth but no words come out, choking nervously on whatever it is he is trying to impart, which he hasn't even fully figured out yet. Spektor heaves a long, suffering sigh.

"Can I… _help_ you?" She squints at him.

"He's told me about you." Severus finally spits out. The look on her face is uninterpretable.

"What?" V fiddles with her ring.

"Caught me looking at a picture of you in his study." Severus continues cautiously. "You were standing in a moonlit garden, surrounded by all these statues...they were weeping..."

"Who are you?" She snaps, suddenly twice as hostile as she had already been.

"Severus Snape. Head of Slytherin house, Potions master..." He answers slowly, uneasily.

"And what exactly do you _want_ , Severus Snape?" She locks her eyes on his, and he notices them for the first time—inky black pools, all pupil. He's never seen a human with eyes like that. He shudders.

"Nothing...I just..." He stammers.

"Nothing? Good. Best to want nothing. Then you'll never be disappointed." She says flatly. Sweeping around to ascend the stairs, she leaves a quite shaken-up Snape frozen in place. This is going to be more difficult than he thought.

Reaching the solace of the attic, she finds herself inside a dusty room stuffed with boxes and laced with cobwebs. Out of a trunk she pulls a black robe with deep green velvet trim. That'll do. She slips into a faded black knee-length dress and stockings that looked alright at first, but turn out to be riddled with holes. Beggars can't be choosers. Digging further she finds a cache of spare wands. All are broken except one, which she snatches up. Muttering a quick spell, she waves the wand in a circular motion around her head, and her hair shears itself off to about mid-spine, curling itself into a style she hasn't worn in nearly fifty years. She catches her reflection in a cracked mirror propped up against the wall. Her teeth, she observes, begin to elongate—growing like thorns on a rosebush—and her nose flattens. She blinks, frowns, and looks away. That's not her, she reminds herself. That's someone else.

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A/N: Please read and review! I'm curious as to what you're thinking thus far, and always appreciate feedback of any kind. As this is rated M, I hope that those reading are doing so with discretion. If there is anything that you would like mentioned as a trigger warning, please let me know so I can make that happen. Otherwise, be forewarned that there will be material ranging from abuse to rape to emotional manipulation, as well as body horror, gore, etc. if you decide to continue.


	3. I: Caring Is Creepy

Chapter 3: Nothing good ever comes from reading someone else's diary. Especially Tom Riddle's.

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III.  
Caring Is Creepy  
[Hogwarts | September 1943]

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"You know, sometimes I get so flushed, it's interesting... Do your palms ever itch?" A golden-haired witch, Penelope Fairchild, chatters, leaning back from the Slytherin table and casting a conspicuous glance down the hall towards a group of boys. The girls seated around her giggle, except one, whose mind is somewhere else entirely. Penelope Fairchild is the darling of the seventh years, rumored to be part-veela, although she's the one who says that, so we all know how reliable that information probably is. But with her brilliant white smile, royal blue eyes, and voluminous flaxen hair, she doesn't need to be part veela to win the attention of every boy in the school.

"You've probably been poisoned. I'd get that checked out if I were you." A waif of a girl with inky dark hair drawls, staring down at her soup. Her green and silver Prefect badge shines in the candlelight.

"Oh c'mon Spektor don't act like you've never fancied anyone..." One of the other girls pipes up, nudging her playfully. She tears her eyes away from her lumpy pea soup to look in the direction Penelope had just indicated.

"Yeah yeah..." Spektor yawns. She slips her hand in her pocket for a moment, forgetting whether she'd taken along that little black book she'd found earlier.

"He's so handsome isn't he?" Fairchild coos. He is handsome. Tall, dark hair, good posture, strong shoulders, an air of mystery and danger about him. Plus he's the bloody Head Boy. Not that Spektor's thought a lot about Tom Riddle. These are all just basic observations. Spektor rolls her eyes. Gathering her books, she rises from the table.

"Don't stare Penelope, he's not a bloody work of art." Spektor says, a little too loud. Penelope, in the process of sweeping around to dramatically to shush Spektor, knocks a goblet of pumpkin juice over, the contents spilling all over her. Spektor voices some impolite phrases, causing the whole table to look over at her, and stalks out of the Great Hall dripping with sticky orange liquid, off to make her rounds of the castle.

After an hour of her Prefect patrol duties, her shoes conspicuously squelching as she patrols the corridors, Spektor runs into the object of Fairchild's desire.

"You're not on duty now, Riddle." Spektor states, eyeing him curiously.

"And your point is?" Riddle says, shifting the books under his arm. He seems to be in a hurry. Or at least that would explain the irritation if he weren't always like this.

"Headed back to the common room?"

"Of course. Where else would I be going?"

"The common room is that way." She says flatly, pointing in the direction he had just come from. What a wise-ass.

"So it is." He says, cracking a sarcastic grin. Spektor narrows her eyes.

"Where do you go at night?" This is something she's been wondering for a while now.

"I could ask you the same thing, Spektor." He counters quickly, raising his eyebrows.

"Fine then. I see how it is." She says, starting to walk away. As she does so, she slips a flask from her robe pocket and taking a swig.

"Drinking on the job?" Riddle asks her back, eyeing the flask with considerable interest.

"No. Uh. Well...not exactly...it's...a potion..." She spins around, his irritation creeping into her own inflection. What's he doing watching her as she walks away, anyway. There's only one way to remedy this. Tom Riddle might be annoying, but he might also not be as much of a square as he seems... She approaches and offers the flask to him. He eyes it skeptically, then takes it from her outstretched hand. He sniffs the liquid.

"This smells poisonous..." He says, wrinkling his nose.

"Don't be stupid, I just drank it. Give it a try if you like..." She watches the young man raise the flask to his lips and take a very small sip. He feels a pleasant tingling sensation spread to his whole body, his muscles relaxing as if he'd just been given a two-hour massage. The hall takes on a rosy tint, and he isn't sure whether he is sitting or standing. His mind goes completely silent, and his face takes on a dazed expression.

"What...what is that?" He stammers dreamily.

"Draught of Dreamlife." She says, "My own personal brew." His eyes widen. She can see beads of sweat forming on his brow. He was desperately trying to resist the effects of the potion, but his efforts were only making him extremely anxious.

"I...uh...I can't feel my feet." He stammers, "Make this stop. I don't like this...Shit, Spektor...I'm gonna be sick..." He gropes around for his pocket, and attempts to take out his wand, but fumbles and drops it on the floor. Goofily he stumbles after his wand, which is now rolling slowly down the hall. Spektor snatches up the wand and slips it back in his pocket, then grabs his arm. He immediately tenses, but is too uncoordinated to yank it away.

"Oh dear...Come with me." She drags him into a nearby empty classroom and sits him at the professor's desk. "Seems it doesn't agree with you…It'll wear off in a bit, don't worry. You just have to wait..." Riddle heaves a big sigh and leans back, his eyes still wide, his body both extremely relaxed and extremely tense, trying to figure out how that's even _possible_. He stares at the ceiling for a while, completely transfixed, breathing loudly, sweating profusely. Spektor sits on the desk and watches him for a bit, then, pulling out a notebook and quill, starts to sketch. Neither are quite sure how much time passes, but it feels like hours before Tom Riddle emerges from his all-too-lucid dream. He watches Spektor draw for a moment before she looks up again. They lock eyes, and he speaks.

"What...are you drawing?" Riddle asks slowly, yawning. Spektor returns her attention to the notebook, putting a few finishing touches on the picture before revealing it to Riddle. "What's that supposed to be?" He asks, his jaw tightening, his heart starting to beat faster, faster.

"That's you." Spektor points to the figure of a tall, handsome young man, "And that's the basilisk." She points to the giant snake coiled opposite the young man, it's head tipped, it's mouth open slightly. The position of the snake and the young man leads one to believe they are engaged in some sort of conversation. Tom's heart is pounding furiously in his chest. What did this girl know? And, more importantly, how did she know it?

"You're not a very good artist." Riddle snaps, leaning back in the chair as casually as he can manage, given the state of his nerves.

"Are you alright?" Spektor asks, closing the notebook and returning it to her bag.

"Why did you draw...that?" Still trying to be casual. Still failing.

"You can talk to snakes." She says. Riddle almost falls out of his chair.

"How. Do. You. Know. That?" He stammers.

"I heard you." Spektor says. A smirk creeps across her thin lips. "It's extremely rare."

"Yes, I'm _aware_." He says, dripping with condescension. "Well...and the basilisk...?"

"Snakes have different accents. Basilisks have a certain pattern of speech. But I'm sure you're aware of that as well." Spektor swings her legs a little, back and forth. "Heard you talking to one last year..." She isn't about to reveal just yet how it is she knew any of this. All in good time, if he is to be trusted—which has yet to be determined.

"What are you playing at, Spektor?" Riddle evaluates the abnormally tall young woman, who is perched on the desk in front of him like a vulture, her weird out-of-focus grey eyes rimmed in winged black eyeliner, thick dark hair elegantly coiffed, severe cheekbones, crimson lips slightly parted. Uniform hanging loosely on her wiry figure, tie dangling from her neck like a noose, shirt slightly untucked—she might be considered reasonably pretty by most standards if she wasn't so pale and uncomfortably skeletal.

"I'm curious about you."

"Curious?" Riddle laughs, a high, cold laugh that doesn't suit him. "I assure you, Spektor, there's nothing of interest about me." Then she pulls out a little black book from her pocket. Riddle stops laughing, a look of horror seizing him.

"Well, you'll have trouble convincing me of that now...after a glance at this..." She holds the diary in her bony hands, flipping its pages. In a matter of seconds, Riddle rises from his chair and lunges at the girl, knocking the desk over with a loud crash, and her with it.

"Bloody hell, Riddle. Get _off_ me." She grunts, heaving the angry young man off her, then massaging the back of her head, which had just smacked against the hard stone floor. She was still holding the diary, but not for long. Riddle, who had scrambled quickly to his feet, and is now towering over her, grabs it out of her hand.

"You dirty thief." He hisses. Spektor rises to her feet, scowling.

"Saw it on your desk after potions... Maybe you ought to get more sleep...don't want to be leaving things like that just lying around." After a pause, during which Riddle seems to be replaying the events of earlier that day to see if her story checks out, she says, "You're lucky I'm the one who found it."

"Lucky?" Riddle chews the word and spits it out. Apparently her story does check out, and he's already kicking himself mentally for being such a careless fool. He's not going to tell her the reason he forgot the diary. It's not like he was distracted by the young woman that sat in front of him during potions. Of course not.

"Just imagine if someone else found it...like that Penelope Fairchild."

"Who?" He hisses, his anger quickly dissipating and replaced by apathetic bewilderment.

"She fancies you." Spektor picks up her bag from the floor and throws it over her shoulder. "For some reason..." She says over her shoulder as she glides towards the door. She lets it slam behind her. Seconds later Tom is in the corridor behind her, footsteps hurried but silent.

"Spektor. Wait. I don't know what you read, or why you were reading it in the first place, but..." Riddle begins in a stern whisper.

"Don't even think on it, Riddle." She replies in a whisper as well. "I don't really care what you get up to. I suppose you're right—there isn't really anything of interest about you." She turns around and sets off down the darkened corridor, leaving him standing stiffly in front of the empty classroom's door, still slightly ajar.

* * *

A/N: For those of you who are curious, I nicked the title of this chapter from the title of the first song off The Shins' album _Oh, Inverted World_. It's worth a listen if you like dreamy indy music that has nothing to do with the chapter you've just read.


	4. I: The Unlikely Professor

Chapter 4: The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher's appetite knows no bounds. The same could not be said of her fondness for her students.

* * *

IV.  
The Unlikely Professor  
[Hogwarts | September 1995]

* * *

"And please welcome Professor Spektor, who will be taking the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher." A smattering of applause jostles "Professor" Spektor from her reverie. Instead of a customary wave, Spektor just stares blankly out at the sea of young faces, not even thinking to display smile. Albus Dumbledore then announces the start of the feast, and everyone begins to dig in.

She's seated at the staff table between Hagrid and Minerva McGonagall. Her two former classmates barely acknowledge her, and what's more, they seem to be actively ignoring her. Hagrid inches his chair a few inches away from Spektor indiscreetly. Looking out over the Great Hall, all the students catching up, plotting, whatever they do, evokes in her a twinge of loneliness, of bitter nostalgia. But the aroma of the food adequately distracts her, and she eats with gusto. She piles onto her plate a large helping of pheasant, a mound of mashed potatoes, creamed spinach, whatever else is in reach, and smothers the whole mess in gravy. Hagrid watches her with a bemused grin. After two helpings of pudding, she pushes herself away from the table. Stuffed and sleepy, Spektor takes her leave from the feast early and steals away to locate her new lodgings. It's a far journey, winding through the familiar corridors and the moving staircase to the third floor corridor. Her living quarters adjoin the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, through a door behind the desk at the front of the room.

The room is small and minimally adorned, with a low iron-framed twin bed in the corner and a shabby desk near the window. A few empty bookcases line the walls. The desk is caked in wax, the chair just off-balance enough to be irritating. There is nothing to unpack. She sits there for a moment feeling deeply alone. But she was alone in Azkaban. How is this any different? Her eyes flit over the stone floor, the bare walls, the large window where the moonlight streams in. Don't think about that.

* * *

When Professor Spektor awakes, she notices a parcel on the desk, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a red string. She leaps out of bed, her bedsheets tangling and slipping to the floor, and grabs the package, runs her eyes over every inch of it, inspecting it. It smells like musk, embers plucked from a fire. They're _still_ following her? After all these years? Before she had the chance to peel back the paper and uncover the parcel's contents, a knock came at the door. It was Albus Dumbledore.

"I see you're settling in. Hope you slept well." He says, glancing around the room, then setting his eyes on Spektor, who is looking nervous, hands holding the parcel trembling slightly. "What's that?" Dumbledore asks, gesturing towards the item in her hands.

"Probably nothing." She thunks it back on the desk and positions her body to block the item from Albus' view. "Is there something you wish to tell me, Albus?" Spektor asks, maybe a tad bit too insolent.

"I was hoping we'd have a chance to meet soon. I have a few questions for you." Dumbledore says. "How about this evening?"

"I think I can fit that in." Spektor mutters.

"Good. I suspect we have a lot to talk about." He says, glancing around the room again. "A bit gloomy in here, isn't it? Here." He transfigures an empty ink pot into a vase full of violets. The sight and scent of the flowers bring a genuine smile to her face. She buries her nose in their fragrant petals, and when she looks back up, Dumbledore is gone. Her attention returns to the strange parcel on her desk.

She's always been one of those people who unwrap gifts carefully so as not to tear the paper. Folding the wrappings neatly, along with the string, and setting them aside, she examines the box. It's smooth black lacquer, completely seamless, yet she's sure it's hollow in the middle—that it contains something. And she's pretty sure she knows exactly who it's from.

* * *

Students file into the cavernous classroom, vaulted ceilings lit dimly by candles fitted into iron chandeliers. The windows are darkened, and a faint crackling of a radio drifts from somewhere distant. The classroom is austere, impersonal, and most unwelcoming. The students settle into their desks, looking around for any sign of their new professor. Harry lights the tip of his wand to help see in the gloom.

"Are we early or something?" Ron asks.

"You're never early, Ron." Hermione snaps, opening her textbook. "I can barely read in this lighting, this is ridiculous." Silent footsteps creep up behind Harry's desk.

"Harry Potter." Professor Spektor says. "We didn't get a chance to properly meet earlier." Harry shivers, and jerks his head around to locate the speaker. The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor extends her hand for him to shake. "V. Spektor. It's a pleasure..." An ominous feeling stirs in the pit of Harry's stomach. There's an intensity in her black eyes that makes him look away, like they could strip him to his very core. He takes her thin, clammy hand and shakes it politely, and a searing pain flashes in his scar. A pained look contorts Harry's face, and Spektor lets go suddenly, a frown forming in the creases of her mouth. "Sorry." She mutters. Studying her hand, she walks up to the front of the room, her robes billowing behind her. Absently she waves her wand and a screen erects itself.

"It's just as important to know how to heal yourself as it is to defend yourself." She says, more to herself than to the class. "Chances are high that if you are attacked there won't be anyone around to help you. So pay attention." She flicks her wand and a slide of a victim of a particularly nasty curse is illuminated on the screen.

"Right, just dive right in. No need for introductions for the rest of the class." Ron mutters sarcastically, propping his chin on his hand.

"What would you do if you were this poor fellow?" Half the class covers their eyes. The image is rather graphic. There's a lot of blood. Hermione's hand shoots up.

After forty-five minutes of gruesome scenes and explanations on how to heal yourself if you've been hit by a curse that tears your wand arm off and the like, the students pack up their things and head for the door slightly more nauseated than when they entered.

"My god, how stupid do you have to be to let that happen to your head?" Draco Malfoy cracks under his breath to Crabbe and Goyle. Draco Malfoy gets quite a chuckle out of some of the images as well, which Professor Spektor apparently hears. She pulls him aside.

"Draco Malfoy. You find injuries funny, do you?" She says icily.

"I...I...oh no, Professor...I don't…" Malfoy simpers, putting up his hands.

"Maybe you'd like to help me demonstrate my next lesson. Live demonstrations tend to have more...impact...I find..." Professor Spektor's veiled threat is not lost on Malfoy. The color drains from his face.

"Please, Professor..." He whines. "Don't make me..."

"I would never make you do anything." She says. Malfoy squirms. "Go on. You're going to be late to your next class." And she waves him off.

* * *

"I heard your first classes had quite an impression on the students." Albus Dumbledore says after Professor Spektor settles herself across from him in a high-backed chair in his cozy, cluttered office. "One first-year came to Professor McGonagall in tears..." He gazes at her from behind his half-moon spectacles.

"Hmmm." She says pensively. "I just taught them about common curses..."

"And I believe you demonstrated some of them on her pet toad." Dumbledore says.

"That was a pet?" she says, blinking. "You had something you wanted to ask me, Albus?"

"Yes." He nods, folding his hands in his lap. "While a student at Hogwarts, you were acquainted with a student named Tom Riddle, correct?" Spektor stares blankly back at the old wizard.

"We were in the same year." She says.

"Would you say you were friends with him?" Dumbledore ventures cautiously.

"Perhaps." She says. Dumbledore detects a small smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. "Let's not ask questions we already know the answers to, Albus. Why else would you assume I was a Death Eater?"

"Well then, what exactly was the nature of your relationship with Tom Riddle? If I may be so blunt…" Dumbledore asks outright.

"You've heard the rumors. What do you think?"

"Honestly, I don't know what to think. These rumors you mention, they sound quite improbable..." Dumbledore muses.

"I'm a little offended, Albus. You drag me out of Azkaban and call me in here and the first question you ask me is about whether I was friends with someone fifty years ago, in hopes that I can give you some information about what? What he was like as a student? What he ate in the Great Hall? What type of sweets he bought in Hogsmeade?" She leans back in the chair and crosses her arms. "You know an awful lot about him already...but hardly anything about me. And for some reason...it doesn't seem like you're the least bit curious." She says, frowning.

"Should I be?" Dumbledore says, arching his eyebrows.

"Absolutely." She says, twisting the ring on her middle finger absentmindedly.


	5. I: Not Stalking, Just Walking

Chapter 5: Just a bunch of prefects and the head boy breaking rules. Business as usual.

* * *

V.  
Not Stalking, Just Walking  
[Hogwarts | October 1943]

* * *

The night before Halloween, Spektor's out roaming the corridors, unable to sleep. She peeks into the Great Hall to catch sight of this year's decorations being prepared by the house elves, many of whom are sitting cross-legged on the floor carving elaborate jack-o'-lanterns. Skirting along the walls, she blends in well with the late-night gloom. She has what you might call an odd predilection for fading into the background, becoming one with the scenery. Wandering down by the dungeons, she hears footsteps behind her and ducks behind a suit of armor, careful not to rustle the metal. A group of boys hurry past, taking care not to make any noise. They're Slytherins, and she recognizes the faces of Lestrange, Avery, and...Riddle. Hmmm... She slips out from behind the suit of armor once they pass and follows them at a distance. After turning a few corners, the three disappear into a darkened classroom. The door closes before she can get to it. No matter. Spektor lurks in the shadows outside the classroom, drinking liberally from her flask, waiting for the three to remerge in hopes of catching some stray fragments of conversation.

"Spektor?" A surprised voice behind her says, causing her to nearly jump out of her skin. She didn't hear the door open, let alone close, and she turns around to see the three Slytherin boys standing in front of her. The voice belonged to Lestrange. "Fancy meeting you here." A creepy smile curls upon his pockmarked, slightly ruddy face.

"What do you think you're doing?" Riddle demands, his arms folded.

"Couldn't sleep." Spektor says, yawning convincingly. "What are you doing here?"

The three boys exchange looks.

"Homework?" Avery offers, a little too unsure of himself, and looks at Riddle, who shoots him a dirty look in return.

"A young lady such as yourself shouldn't be wandering these corridors alone at night, Spektor." Lestrange says, stepping forward. "It isn't safe. Here, let me escort you back to the common room." He proffers his arm.

"We're all going back to the common room." Riddle states forcefully.

"I was thinking of going to the kitchens...actually..." Spektor says, gesturing in the opposite direction, "I'm a bit hungry..."

"It's after midnight. I doubt...wait...you intend to just walk into the kitchens? And ask for food?" Lestrange scoffs.

"I didn't say anything about asking..." Spektor mutters, starting to walk off down the corridor. Lestrange watches her for a moment, debating with himself whether to follow her. But the three boys set off in the opposite direction. Then, Riddle stops suddenly.

"I think I might've forgotten something... Go on, I'll catch up." Riddle says, and as the two continue on without him, he doubles back and catches up with Spektor.

"Why are you following me?" Riddle demands, in hushed tones. Spektor halts.

"I believe it is _you_ who is following _me_ at the moment." She turns around to face him.

"So you just ended up outside of that classroom by coincidence?"

"I was on my way to the kitchens. I stopped to have a...think..."

"You mean 'a drink.'"

"What do you want, Riddle?"

"I want to know what you want, Spektor."

"A snack."

"Where do you go at night, Spektor?"

"All over. Wherever I feel like. Tonight, the kitchens. Sometimes the Astronomy tower. I don't sleep much."

"Why not?"

"My dreams aren't safe anymore."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh...I dunno..." She trails off. Then, "Why are you so curious about me all of a sudden? What's it to you?"

"Shouldn't I be curious about someone who's so curious about me?"

"Don't flatter yourself."

"Why do you drink that stuff?"

"For protection."

"Protection?"

"Again—what's it to you?"

"Oh, nothing..." Riddle drawls, shifting his weight, looking like he was considering an exit.

"While we're playing Twenty Questions: what was that all about back there, anyway?" Spektor asks, folding her arms across her chest, mimicking Riddle's stance. "I hardly believe Avery..."

"It's none of your business."

"Suddenly so secretive...Now, I don't think that's very fair..."

"You've read my bloody diary...why don't you take a guess?"

"Well then, all that sneaking around must've made you hungry...Come along—there's probably cake..." V smirks, stalking off down the hall. She doesn't expect Riddle to follow, and Riddle doesn't quite know why he is following. He's not even hungry.


	6. I: Puzzling

Chapter 6: Everyone's favorite Ministry official shows up to start doling out rules, and the Trio make an unsettling discovery about Professor Spektor.

* * *

VI.  
Puzzling  
[Hogwarts | October 1995]

* * *

Dappled in moonlight, the courtyard lay still and quiet, save for a rustling in the bushes. Ronald Weasley stops dead in his tracks with a sharp intake of breath, glancing around nervously, rubbing the back of his neck out of nervous habit. He catches a glimpse of a pale wrist and cringes, a bit too overtly, but then again there's nobody around to see him. Except this person. If they're still…he gulps…alive… He cautiously edges away from the bushes, thinking to himself that of course when he finds a dead body he's _alone_. Just great. As he walks away there's a rustling behind him and he freezes once more, his air getting all caught up in his lungs, his dinner getting stirred up in his gut and threatening to expel itself all over the courtyard. Slowly, very slowly, he turns around.

"Bloody hell!" He gasps, clapping his hand to his mouth. Professor Spektor's standing in the bushes, her left arm at an unnatural angle, her right brushing bits of shrubbery out of her dark, messy hair.

"Am I? Bleeding, that is?" She asks casually, running her hand over her face and drawing it away with a slight smear of blood, nothing too serious.

"Are you…alright?" Ron glances around nervously. "Do you need…should I call Madame Pomfrey?"

"Madame Pomfrey doesn't know shit about healing." Professor Spektor says bitterly, and then, realizing her company, "Excuse me. No. Sorry. Thank you. What am I supposed to say?" She blinks a few times, squints at Ron, and smiles pleasantly. "Ron Weasley. You're friends with Potter."

"Yeah. That's right. Potter's friend. My claim to fame." Ron says bitterly, then, remembering his company, says "He's my best mate, yeah. Can I ask what…uh…happened? You look like you fell from…"

"The roof? That's silly, if I fell from the roof I'd be dead." Professor Spektor smiles oddly. She draws her wand and runs it the length of her arm, uttering no incantation at all. Ron watches her in a puzzled daze, contemplating how to excuse himself, to get away. He's got a game of Wizards' chess he's currently standing Dean Thomas up for. "You good at puzzles, Weasley?"

"Um, not particularly, I don't think…" Ron thinks on it. "Hermione's probably better…Hermione's better at everything, really…"

"I didn't ask you about Hermione." Professor Spektor says, making an unpleasant face when she says the name. "I asked you about yourself. Here, what do you make of this?" She tosses Ron the small black lacquer box she received in the post a few days ago. He turns it over in his hands, running his fingers along the edges.

"I could take a crack at it, I guess." He says smugly, shrugging his shoulders. "I've never seen one like this before...Are you sure it opens? Are you sure it's a puzzle? What's inside?"

"That's the fun of it, isn't it? I've got no idea. I've been struggling with it for days. Can't make heads or tails of the thing."

"Yeah, alright. I'll see what I can do." Ron says, his eyes lighting up. He's never been asked by a professor to solve a problem for them before. That kind of stuff always goes straight to Harry and Hermione.

"Just don't lose it, alright? It was a present." She says. "And probably best not to bring your mates in on this. I trust you can handle it yourself."

"Right. Of course." Ron says, smiling, fully engaged with the box in his hands.

* * *

When Ron returns to the Gryffindor common room, Harry and Hermione are waiting for him. Hermione's standing in the center of the plush furnished room, her hands on her hips, foot tapping in annoyance.

"Where have you been?" She scoffs. Ron shuffles past her, staring at something in his hands. "Dean stormed out of here fifteen minutes ago to go find you. What's that? What've you got?"

"Ron what is that?" Harry circles around Ron to get a better look at what he's trying to conceal behind him. Ron plops down on a sofa and shoves the thing behind him.

"What's what?" Ron asks, showing his hands empty.

"Come on, we both saw it!" Harry lunges at Ron and tickles him in the ribs.

"Stop! Harry! No!" Ron says through fits of laughter. "If you continue I will not be responsible for punching you in your stupid face!" While Ron's doubling over in his giggle fit, Hermione snatches the box from behind him on the sofa.

"What's this then?" Hermione says, turning the small black box over in her hand. "Ron, where'd you get this?"

"I'm not supposed to tell anyone about it." He giggles.

"What do you mean you're not supposed to tell anyone about it? Who gave that to you?" Hermione demands.

"Professor Spektor." Ron laughs. Hermione fumes.

"She gave you a _present_?" Harry asks incredulously. "What for?"

"She didn't _give_ it to me, she asked me to solve it." He says, breathing heavily, but speaking semi-normally now. "It's some sort of puzzle."

"Why you?" Hermione asks, and then, realizing the harshness of the question, tries to backpedal, "I mean, oh come on, you know what I mean… Why not ask one of the other professors? Or Dumbledore?"

"I dunno." Ron says, shrugging. "I don't know about her…she doesn't seem to be all there, know what I mean? A few cards short of a full deck."

"Well she was locked up in Azkaban for, what did Sirius say, _fifty years_? If that doesn't drive you mad, I don't know what would." Harry says. "Wait, why _did_ she get sent to Azkaban?"

"No idea." Ron shrugs. "I'd never even heard of her before. I mean, I guess whatever she did was before all of our time, but I dunno, you'd think…usually people talk…"

"Whatever she got sent to Azkaban for must be in the history books. I'm going to…"

"The library?" Ron and Harry ask in unison. Hermione glares at them.

"I don't know why we didn't think to check before. If she's going to be teaching us, and Ron's going to be her new best friend, I think we need to know more about what we're dealing with." Hermione says, and gathers her things. "I'd stop playing with that if I were you. At least until I come back." She orders. Ron puts the puzzle down on the table obediently. Harry stifles a laugh, and Ron elbows him hard in the ribs.

* * *

The Ministry of Magic was bound to step in, and sure enough a certain ministry official decides it is a good idea to send a representative to Hogwarts to make sure everything is up to snuff. The representative is one Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, and she makes her presence well known from the moment she sets foot in the castle.

"Ahem." A squat, toad-like witch dressed in pink tweed is standing at the door of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Most of the students, including Harry, Ron, and Hermione, turn around to stare at the intruder. Actually, one of the only students _not_ to turn around is Draco Malfoy, who is giving Professor Spektor his complete and undivided attention. Professor Spektor ignores her and continues describing the difference between a magical laceration and one caused by a common sharp object like a knife or sword. " _Ahem_." The witch repeats, her irritation glazed in a saccharine coating.

"Do you want something?" Professor Spektor asks, facing the chalkboard, sounding bored.

"Yes." The witch says, now striding into the room, her head swiveling as she surveys the students. "I want to introduce myself. I'm..."

"Dolores Umbridge. Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic." Spektor cuts her off, still with her back to the woman. Umbridge stares at her, quite taken aback.

"Yes. And I've been sent by the Ministry to evaluate the quality of education the students at Hogwarts are receiving." She says with a frown. "I've been told you've been teaching some rather _disturbing_ material, so I've taken it upon myself to provide you with some more _suitable_ coursework for these young witches and wizards." Umbridge conjures a stack of textbooks on Professor Spektor's desk. Finally, Professor Spektor turns around.

"And what exactly do you find _disturbing_ about healing?"

"I don't think these students will ever have any cause to use these…measures of healing and defense you're instructing them with. What use is information that not only won't be useful, but also scars these poor innocent children, instilling them with fear and worry?" She puts her hand on Pavarti Patil's shoulder.

"You know what scars poor innocent children?" Professor Spektor quips. Harry squirms in his seat, his own scar twinging. "People like you."

"Excuse me?" Umbridge says, placing her hand on her heart in mild offense. "Whatever do you mean by that, Miss…" The air has gone from the classroom, and all the students sit still in their seats, holding their breath.

"Oh please, you know who I am." Professor Spektor rolls her eyes. Umbridge tips her head as she peers at the wiry woman in thick black robes standing before the blackboard, a piece of chalk delicately pinched between her long bone-white fingers. Then she notices the eyes. Those eyes she saw peering at her from a cell in Azkaban during her tour when she was first brought on as Fudge's Undersecretary. Those black lightless inhuman eyes. Dolores Umbridge shudders.

"My my. It seems they'll let anyone teach here. Things are much worse than I thought." She smiles wickedly. "Please adhere to the curriculum the Ministry has set forth. I'll be visiting periodically to check in on your progress."

"Lovely." Professor Spektor says coldly. "Thank Merlin for the Ministry, who never fail to tell us exactly what to do."

"Indeed." Umbridge flashes a vicious smile before bustling out the door.

"Now where were we. Oh yes, see the way the blood flows in this case here, you can tell this wound was caused by a wand. Note the edges of the skin at the point of separation..." Professor Spektor drones on as if Umbridge had never barged in in the first place.

* * *

"Harry, Ron, you've got to read this!" Hermione gasps, completely out of breath having just stumbled into the Gryffindor common room cradling a huge volume in her arms. She drops the book with a thump on the coffee table in front of the fireplace. The two boys gather around and watch as she flips through the pages until she lands on the passage, jabbing it with her pointer finger. "I knew it had to be bad, whatever she did. And it is. It's bad."

 **Spektor, Victoria** : the subject of one of the most notable murder trials of the last century, Victoria Spektor, at only seventeen years of age, brutally murdered her father Septimus and her sister Lucinda in their home in London on December 27, 1943. After eluding the authorities for nearly a year, she was tracked down and arrested in Knockturn Alley, and found in possession of several illegal substances which authorities discovered were used to poison an entire muggle village under the direction of Gellert Grindelwald. It is believed that Victoria Spektor was the first member of the Knights of Walpurgus, a group which later became known as the Death Eaters. For these crimes, Victoria "V." Spektor was sentenced to life in Azkaban Prison.

A small replica of Professor Spektor's likeness, from fifty years in the past, glares at them from beside the blurb. She's pretty, Ron thinks—hauntingly pretty—and absolutely furious about something, like she could kill the photographer snapping the picture. It reminds him of the look she shot Umbridge earlier that day.

"That was _her_?" Ron says, a bit stunned, "I remember Dad saying something once about how we think You-Know-Who's bad, but before him Grindelwald and his followers were also bloody terrifying. More muggles died during Grindelwald's time than during You-Know-Who's."

"Well if it wasn't for Harry that might not be the case." Hermione says, casting Harry a faint smile. "But that's beside the point." Hermione sighs. "What are we going to do?"

"Dumbledore must trust her. Otherwise he never would've hired her." Harry says.

"And Dumbledore also trusts Snape." Hermione says.

"Good point." Ron injects.

"Remember when we thought Sirius was a mass murderer but it turns out it was Pettigrew's fault?" Harry says. "Maybe it's something like that. Maybe she was framed." Harry glances over the blurb again, mulling something over in his mind. "It says here 1943… You know who also went to Hogwarts in 1943?" Harry looks from Ron to Hermione, and watches as the realization dawns on both of them.

"You think…you think Riddle made her kill her family? And those muggles? Like with Ginny and the diary?" Ron coughs, the memory still an unpleasant one for him.

"It's a possibility. And that could explain why Dumbledore brought her here." Harry says. "I know she seems creepy…"

"Seems?" Hermione arches an eyebrow. "She's almost as creepy as You-Know-Who is." She makes an ugly face.

"It says here she was one of the first Death Eaters. Maybe they were _friends_?" Ron says.

"I wouldn't be surprised." Hermione spits.

"Whatever the case, Dumbledore must have a good reason for bringing her here. He wouldn't have done so if she wasn't on our side." Harry says, his faith in Dumbledore strong as ever.

"I think we should be careful." Hermione says skeptically. She wants to put her trust in Dumbledore but something doesn't feel right. Hermione Granger doesn't sense an innocent bone in that woman's body. But there's nothing to be done, not now in any case. They'll just have to wait and see.


	7. I: Put That In Your Cauldron & Brew It

Chapter 7: Slughorn's potions class gets messy, and a re-assignment of partners is in order.

* * *

VII.  
Put That In Your Cauldron & Brew It  
[The Potions Classroom | November 1943]

* * *

Tom Riddle didn't quite understand what was happening. It was like somehow, without even orchestrating the slightest maneuver, the girl he'd been secretly eyeing during potions is now practically stalking him. It didn't make any sense. In the past six years they've been in school together, they never once were assigned to work on a project together, and never once exchanged conversation in the common room or at mealtimes. Now that he thinks about it, the only times they've ever spoke to each other were the occasions he caught her roaming the castle after dark, to reprimand her, which he eventually stopped bothering to do after her responses grew more and more hostile. Yes, that's the word for her. Hostile. Poison seemed to seep from her skin when approached, the air taking on a tense electrical charge. He'd be lying if he said that isn't one of the reasons she caught his attention. Her capacity for hatred is unrivaled among his fellow students. As well as her blatant disregard for rules. God only knows how she became a prefect. Slughorn probably had something to do with it. His golden girl. His potions prodigy. Riddle can't even begin to compete with her in that arena. A purely natural talent. Or is it?

"Now make sure you squeeze the juice out of the pigs' eyes before adding them to the mixture." Horace Slughorn says, pacing between the rows of desks, peering into simmering cauldrons. He pauses in front of Riddle and Fairchild's cauldron and frowns. "Better hurry up, if you let it sit too much longer it'll congeal..."

"Right, sir." Riddle grumbles, slightly frazzled, plunging his hand into the jar of eyes. He casts a sidelong glance at Fairchild, who is trying with every fiber of her being to not look like she's going to be sick. But when he tries to hand her the gelatinous organ, dripping with fluid, she covers her mouth and turns away, her tanned skin now a pale shade of green. "Useless." He mutters darkly. And so, as he's squeezing these eyeballs into the potion, which is now definitely congealing, he catches Spektor and Avery in the corner of his own eye—Spektor meticulously slicing the boomslang skin, Avery dropping the eyeballs on the table to see how high they'll bounce. (They don't bounce, idiot.) She sharply turns her head to look straight back at him. Her gaze falls upon his sorry excuse for a Serum of Second Sight.

"Cut them in half first." She says, just loud enough for him to hear, as the fluid leaks through his clenched fist. "And slice the boomslang skin, don't chop it—otherwise it'll dissolve into powder."

"I didn't ask for your help." He says, angry at himself for appearing so incompetent.

"Yeah, but you need it." Spektor says, pointing at his cauldron. "That stinks..." Fairchild flips through _Advanced Potion Making_ , stirs the potion counterclockwise after Riddle drops the rest of the eyes in, and, while in mid-stir, vomits right into the cauldron. Riddle is furious.

"Useless!" He yells, abruptly pushing her away. He tries to scoop out the vomit with the spoon but it's no use. Slughorn descends upon the scene of the commotion, a startled look on his pudgy face.

"Oh dear..." He sighs, "Will someone take Miss Fairchild to the hospital wing?" Penderghast jumps up and escorts Fairchild, who is now weeping into her palms, from the classroom. "Ten points from Slytherin, Tom, for that outburst. You should know never to treat a lady like that. Or anyone, for that matter. You're Head Boy after all, and it's your _responsibility_ good example for the rest of the students."

"Right...Sir." Riddle says stiffly. "I apologize."

"You are to come here straight after dinner and remake that potion." Slughorn says.

"You're giving me detention?" Riddle is pissed. He's never received detention. Ever.

"Don't be late." Slughorn says, waving his wand to clean up the mess.

* * *

Tom Riddle isn't the only one who must report to the potions classroom after dinner, as it turns out. When he arrives, expecting to find just Slughorn and a room of empty desks, he's certainly surprised to see V. Spektor sitting in her usual spot, cauldron already fired up, ingredients laid out neatly in front of her.

"You're stalking me." Riddle asks, confused to the point of irritation.

"You wish." Spektor smirks without looking up from her copy of _Advanced Potion Making_.

"If you expect me to believe you botched your potion as badly I did..." Riddle starts, squinting at the young woman, her shiny dark hair tied up in a green silk ribbon, eyes shadowed from countless sleepless nights. Just then Slughorn waddles in, a bottle clutched in his right hand. He gives it to Spektor, and she slips it into her pocket.

"Ah, Tom. I thought it might be better for Miss Spektor to walk you through the potion, and she most graciously agreed. I've assigned you two as partners from now on, and Miss Fairchild will work with Avery, you know, to keep the peace in our classroom and all that." He says, smiling. "Now get to work. I'll be in my office if you need me." As soon as the door closes behind Slughorn, Riddle turns to Spektor with a killer look.

"He gave you something." Riddle says, eyeing the bulge in Spektor's pocket.

"Sit down. You're wasting time."

"Don't you dare tell me what to do." He says, still standing there, towering over her.

"You screwed up your potion, made a girl cry, got detention, and now you're going to just stand there and watch while the best potions student in the school does your work for you." She says coldly. "Some Head Boy." Riddle has never been talked back to in such a manner. It seriously bothers him that he doesn't intimidate her.

"You sure think highly of yourself." Riddle scoffs.

"You know it's true." Spektor says. He does. Everyone knows it's true. "Sit down." He sits. They begin to prepare the ingredients. Spektor handles the eyeballs while Riddle slices the boomslang skin. They work in silence, efficient and precise, and in no time the potion is ready to brew. The finished product, the Serum of Second Sight, is a shimmering light blue. It is beautiful. Riddle gazes into the cauldron, marveling at his, no— _their_ , handiwork. "See, you did it. That wasn't so difficult..."

"We make a good team." Riddle says before he can stop himself.

"We do?" Spektor says, raising an eyebrow.

"I mean...you'll be a much better partner than that Fairchild girl."

"You're welcome." They start cleaning up. Then she notices him stop, as if he's about to say something.

"What are you up to?" He asks bluntly.

"You mean...in general?" She asks, squinting, feigning annoyance at his vague question.

"You know what I mean." He says.

"You're the one person I'm not supposed to tell that to..."

"And why's that?"

"Head Boy..." She says, a devilish smirk creeping across her lips. "You'll have to report me..."

"I won't." He says quickly. "I would never."

"Ok then. Smell me."

"What?" He blushes.

"Go on. Take a sniff." She says, ignoring Riddle's embarrassing reaction, much to his relief. He steps closer to her, until they're only an inch apart at most, and inhales deeply. And then again. Nothing. No scent. No perfume, soap, sweat, or even skin.

"I don't smell anything...it's as if...my eyes were closed...I wouldn't even know you were here..." He says. Then he does close his eyes and sniffs again.

"Isn't that strange..." She hints.

"Inhuman..." He muses. A moment passes before he realizes how close he's standing to her, and takes a step backwards.

"You sure know how to give complements." Her sarcasm isn't lost on Riddle. And neither is the wink she gives him. He can smell himself starting to sweat. He twists the ring on his finger, his nervous tick.

"Sorry. You're perfectly human, I'm sure."

"Sometimes I have my doubts." She mumbles. He asked for clues, but none of this makes much sense. There's nothing he wants more than to run out of there and head straight to the library. But he needs to think up a good exit without leaving the option open for her to tag along.

"Don't we all..." He says, his face once more it's usual shade, his voice steady, deep, with its dull angry edge. "Listen, I've got to get going..."

"Ok. Have fun." She says absently. _Have fun_? He shoots her an exasperated look.

"Whatever _that's_ supposed to mean..." He mutters to himself as he slings his bag over his shoulder and walks from the room. Glancing back quickly before exiting, he sees her flipping through the textbook, making notes. What a fucking nerd.


	8. I: Girl Gossip

Chapter 8: Ruminations on heartache and potential dates for the Yule Ball.

* * *

VIII.  
Girl Gossip  
[Moaning Myrtle's Bathroom | November 1943]

* * *

It's early afternoon and Penelope Fairchild ducks out of History of Magic to fix her hair in the girl's bathroom on the first floor. With appearances to keep up, a quick trip to the bathroom was necessary in between classes—especially with the Yule Ball approaching. Many seventh-years had the same thing on their minds, finding a mate before graduation, and she was certainly part of that group. Not that she had much of a struggle ahead of her. Penelope Fairchild was by far one of the most beautiful girls in the whole school. Men and women alike have fallen prey to her charm, which has earned her the reputation of being quite the heartbreaker. Of those lucky enough to get at least a date with Fairchild, all of them recount the experience of being in her presence as simply sublime, and speculate she's likely part veela. That would make sense. Although it could also be chalked up to her ambition in the arena of love and romance. She is practiced in the art of seduction, as her latest conquest knows first-hand. Edward O'Connor, captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, didn't stand a chance against her strange powers. One look and he was done for. Quickly the pair became a power couple, bucking the age-old rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin, and making an attractive spectacle of it all. They dated for three years before she finally broke it off over the summer. And since returning to school this year, her sights are set on the Head Boy. That would really get O'Connor's goat. He _hated_ Riddle. But that's not her only motive, of course—vanity definitely factors into this. And after all, she deserves to date a Head Boy...I mean _look_ at her.

She enters and nearly walks right into Olive Hornby, Hufflepuff, who is hurriedly exiting, as though escaping from some pest. That's right, Fairchild remembers, the ghost of the girl who was killed last year has been hanging around this bathroom. Poor Olive—can't catch a break can she?

"Oh, Penelope! Can't even take a piss without being spooked by that git. What did I ever do to deserve this?" Hornby whines.

"I'm just glad she's not haunting _me_..." Fairchild says, adding a sympathetic smile. Hornby adjusts the books in her hands, balancing them on her hip.

"I mean, don't take this the wrong way. Of course I'm sad she's dead and all, but come _on_. Just leave me alone already! Find someone else to be obsessed with!"

"She...can't..." Fairchild says slowly, a little confused.

"Well yeah I know that, but...I mean...you know..." Hornby says, then changing the subject, "So you think Riddle's gonna ask you to the Yule Ball?"

"I doubt it." Fairchild's face darkens. "After what happened in potions yesterday...Oh Olive I messed everything up! I don't have a chance..." Before Fairchild could finish the thought, a third person enters the girls bathroom. It's Spektor. She walks right past the two girls, who don't notice her until she's over at the sinks. She twirls the faucet but no water comes out, so she moves to the next one down, where she holds her hands under the hot water.

"Watch out, Myrtle's on the prowl." Hornby shouts in Spektor's direction. She looks over at the two girls standing by the door.

"Ghosts can't hurt anybody. I wouldn't be too worried." Spektor says flatly.

"Yeah but when you least expect it, she comes right up behind you and..."

"Terrifying." Spektor interjects. She lathers the soap, crushing tiny bubbles with the weight of water and skin. "Hey Fairchild, you feeling better?"

"Yeah I guess." Fairchild chimes glumly. She's twirling a lock of her golden hair around her index finger coquettishly.

"What she means is that she's _devastated_ because now Riddle won't ask her to the Yule Ball because she puked in his cauldron." Hornby says, grinning. Taking pleasure in others' misfortune was one of Hornby's most notable traits. She's a classic mean girl.

"Hmmmm that's too bad..." Spektor dries her hands on her robes, eyes fixed on the sink, carefully keeping her glance from the mirror. "But I can't imagine you wanting to go with him after he pushed you though..."

"Oh I don't really mind. I mean, I guess I sorta deserved it...I did puke in the cauldron after all...And he's so _handsome_...and he's _Head Boy_." Fairchild slips into a daydream. "I've always wanted to date a Head Boy."

"I think you picked the wrong one." Hornby chimes in. "He's awful, Fairchild. I heard he docked fifty points from Ravenclaw because he caught George Hawkins laughing at a joke."

"What was the joke about?" Spektor asks.

"Does it matter?" Hornby scoffs. "He's such a drag, Penelope. You deserve better. What about Lestrange? You've talked about him before..." Penelope glares at Hornby, shaking her head. Hornby nods apologetically.

"You like Lestrange?" Spektor's surprised, she never would've suspected.

"He's alright...I guess..." Fairchild sways awkwardly from side to side.

"I can tell him, if you want..." Spektor offers. Fairchild is shocked. She's under the impression, as is everyone else, that Lestrange is going to ask Spektor to the ball. It just goes without saying. How could she be so indifferent?

"But...then Tom will know...and he'll think I don't like him anymore..."

"Get a grip, Penelope!" Hornby steams exasperatedly.

"I wouldn't worry too much about it, Penelope." Spektor says. "Tom will probably ask you."

"You think so?" Fairchild says, her ego beginning to re-inflate.

"Of course." Spektor says.

"What about _you_ then? Got someone in mind?" Hornby shifts her attention to Spektor now.

"Oh I dunno..." Spektor shrugs. "I wasn't even planning on going...but I guess if someone asks me...Why not, right?"


	9. I: Hallucinations & Hospital Beds

Chapter 9: These days, for V Spektor, nothing is as it seems.

* * *

IX.  
Hallucinations & Hospital Beds  
[Hogwarts | December 1943]

* * *

Footsteps and a surprised shriek alerted Spektor to the presence of Professor Slughorn, whose office she was currently robbing of expensive, not to mention dangerous, potion ingredients. A few bottles slip from her hands and smash on the floor as she whips around, hurriedly trying to draw up some sort of reasonable explanation.

"Sorry Victoria, didn't expect to see you there. Looking for something?" Professor Slughorn is weirdly unfazed by the fact that he caught one of his students, let alone his golden girl, stealing from his private stores.

"I was just...waiting for you to get back...and was...admiring...your stock..." Spektor says, somewhat convincingly, as she replaces the bottles that are still in tact on the nearest shelf.

"Impressive, isn't it? You'd be hard pressed to find a selection like this anywhere else, I imagine. Now, what did you...Good God Victoria...are you _alright_?" The alarm in Slughorn's voice is now much more elevated than moments ago. Blood is leaking in tiny rivulets from the corners of the girl's eyes, from her ears, from the corner of her mouth. Usually an uncommonly pretty girl, the figure that stood before him looked positively demonic. Horror's all over his face.

"What? Sir?" Spektor observes his shock with mild curiosity.

"What have you _done_?" Slughorn whispers, dragging Spektor over to a mirror. One glance in the thing and she clamps her eyelids shut. Now she's elbowing Slughorn in the stomach, trying to get away. "My dear Victoria, look—you're bleeding. Your eyes, they're _bleeding_."

"I…Don't. Like. Mirrors." She says emphatically, refusing to look.

"My dear dear girl...what have you _done_."

"I don't know what you're on about...I haven't _done_ anything." Spketor wipes her cheek. It is real this time. Not just a hallucination. But what did it mean? She hadn't done anything to cause this. Her experimental potions should be _helping_ with the weird visions, creepy feelings, strange dreams... Maybe Slughorn could help? "I've been seeing it in the mirrors for months. Thought they were just weird hallucinations... But please, Professor...I don't want to go to the hospital wing. I have a feeling they might not...understand..."

"I'm afraid _I_ don't quite understand..." Slughorn says, visibly shaken. "The only time I've heard of this sort of thing happening..." He pauses, shakes his head, laughs to himself, "but that's impossible...I shouldn't even say it..."

"What is it?" Her voice drops, eyes widening out of fear, coupled with her insatiable curiosity.

"Well, it's been said that humans...after a soul's been...well..." Slughorn is resisting even as he's speaking the words. "Forgive me, I shouldn't be discussing this. Especially not with a young woman such as yourself. There is enough darkness in the world without speaking of it." Spektor's eyes still unnaturally wide, her face fades impossibly pale.

"After a soul's been... _what_...professor?" Spektor practically whispers. Professor Slughorn glances around his office nervously.

"Well, sort of, you know, tampered...with..." Slughorn says slowly.

"How does one's soul become _tampered with_?" Spektor asks quickly. Slughorn steps toward the ghostly young woman and holds the back of his hand to her forehead to test whether she's feverish. Instead, her skin is cold and clammy to the touch.

"My dear girl, I can't imagine why you'd be concerned about that." Professor Slughorn says, more to console himself than her. "Why don't we go up to the hospital wing...get you some sleeping draught, and have a nice long rest. Have you been sleeping?"

"No. No! Please professor, I just need you to answer my question. Then I'll go back to my dormitory and go to sleep. I promise."

"I'm afraid I can't allow that." And without a moment's pause, he disarms her, takes her by the arm, and escorts her quickly from his office and up to the hospital wing. Once they arrive, Spektor has given up on resisting. Although she's about as tall as Slughorn, he's about three times her size and her strength is just not up to par. Madame Knowkes bustles up to them, sets eyes on Spektor, slumped and sallow, and begins muttering to herself nervously.

"Oh dear...oh dear. Well what've we got here? Let's have a look-see old girl, and we'll get you back in tip-top shape as quick as a broomstick." Madame Knowkes takes Spektor from Slughorn and brings her to a bed all the way in the back of the wing, sitting her down, and beginning to examine her. Slughorn hovers in the background, waiting to hear a snippet of information to disprove his suspicions. "Now tell me what happened."

"I don't know." She shrugs.

"Interesting... Are you sure nobody put a curse on you? Slipped something suspicious in your pumpkin juice?"

"I don't know." Spektor mutters, knowing full well nobody put a curse on her, but deciding it better to leave some room for interpretation. Madame Knowkes has her change into a hospital gown, prepares a sleeping draught, and soon Spektor sinks into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

* * *

When she awakes, someone is sitting next to her bedside. Her eyes still weighted and lazy with sleep, she has difficulty telling who is sitting there, but after a moment, she sits up with a start, drawing the sheets up to her shoulders, clutching them tightly in her fists.

"Riddle? What are you doing here?" Spektor demands.

"I could ask you the same thing, Spektor."

"Please Riddle, I am _not_ in the mood for this." She whispers furtively.

"I heard you were bleeding out your eyes...Figured I'd visit..." He drawls.

"Well, now you can see for yourself. I hope your curiosity is sated." Spektor says bitterly, sinking slightly back down into the bed, eyes narrowed, sheets still pulled up to her nose.

"Not even a little bit." Riddle smirks. Although he's been doing his share of research, and knows a fair bit more about this strange, secretive young woman thanks to the hints she dropped that night in the potions classroom, there are still so many unanswered questions. "Anyway, I brought your books." He gestures to her bedside table, which is stacked with textbooks.

"Thanks." She says, then, "Wait...you went into my dormitory?"

"You're welcome." The smirk is still fixed on Riddle's face.

"Why are you smiling like that?" Spektor demands, squinting at him.

"No reason."

"Sure."

"I brought you this also." Riddle hands her the notebook she'd been sketching in that day she let Riddle try the Draught of Dreamlife. Alright then. It all makes sense now. "You sure like to draw. Strangely, towards the end, there seem to be only sketches of one person..."

"I can't figure you out." Spektor hisses.

"Maybe I don't want you to." Riddle says, rising from the chair. They were even now. Sort of. "That Ancient Runes paper is due tomorrow. Two feet of parchment." He says loudly as he strides out of the hospital wing. Spektor watches his back retreat until the door of the hospital wing swings shut. Did she really draw only sketches of him? She flips through the notebook, and sure enough... But wait, the last drawing isn't hers—it's done in dark green ink, a completely different style. It's a crude doodle of her in her hospital bed. She stares at it for what seems like hours. Riddle had been drawing her as she slept. He'd been sitting there for however long, waiting for her to wake up, and instead of leaving or reading or doing whatever else, he sat there and sketched her. What a fucking creep. There was a note beneath the picture. She squinted to read the small, neat handwriting:

 _Come to the Yule Ball with me_.

In true Tom Riddle fashion, it is a demand. She laughs out loud, drawing Madame Knowkes out from her office.

"I see you're feeling better, old girl."

"Slightly, yes." Spektor says, still laughing. She can't seem to stop.

"Top notch! Still bleeding though, I see. I'll see what I have to put a stop to that. Back in a flash." Madame Knowkes bustles back off to her office. When Madame Knowkes comes back, Spektor's still chuckling to herself. "Now tell me what's got you so amused. I simply _must_ know."

"Boys." Spektor says, and Madame Knowkes gives her a knowing smile.

"That one that just left?"

"That very one."


	10. I: A Momentary Lapse In Consciousness

Chapter 10: Severus Snape should keep his unusually large nose out of other people's business.

* * *

X.  
A Momentary Lapse In Consciousness  
[Hogwarts | November 1995]

* * *

The room is cold, a single candle flickering in the dusky gloom, casting a shifting shadow upon the wall, the illusion of movement in absolute stillness. The figure is still, breathing slowly through her clenched teeth, as if in great pain. Pinched in her right hand is a dropper, which she'd just emptied into a gaping wound on her left forearm. A dagger lays upon the desk, her own blood still clinging to the blade. She's done it. Healing still needs to be performed, but the wound itself is stable, gets no worse as time elapses. No loss of blood, save for that on the blade itself. The only problem is the pain...

A sharp knock at the door does nothing to jolt her out of her state. Her focus is intense, she's inwardly reveling at the accomplishment, one that has the potential to make history, if she ever tells anyone about it. The knock sounds again. This time, she grants the knocker permission to enter, like an automatic response, not given much thought. Severus Snape enters quickly at first, then slows. The cramped office smells like a mixture of mold, candle wax, and...is that firewhisky?

"Professor...?" Snape ventures. Her back is to the door, her eyes fixed on the stone wall in front of her. She doesn't turn to face him. "It seems the entire bottle of essence of dittany has gone missing from my stores..." he doesn't have to continue. After quickly surveying the room he catches sight of the bottle in question sitting open on the desk beside her, the dropper still in her hand. "You could've just asked, you know." He says.

"Ask about what?" Professor Spektor responds abruptly, turning around, annoyed by his presence. Her eyes narrow.

"The...umm...the dittany..." He says, gesturing to the bottle. Her hand darts to it, screwing the top back on, and holding it out to him. His gaze falls on the gash running up her forearm, just above that weird snake tattoo that looks uncannily like the dark mark.

"What, you don't want it now?" She's growing more irritated by the second. Snape grabs the bottle from her hand.

"Next time you decide to go shopping in my personal stores, I'd appreciate if you let me know." Snape says, making no move to exit. He's looking for an apology. Fine.

"Right. Sorry." She says.

"Your arm. Would you like me to get Madame Pomfrey to look at that?"

"Madame Pomfrey doesn't know shit about healing." Professor Spektor says. "I may be famous for being a murderer, but my true talents lie in healing. I think I've got this under control." She says bitterly. Snape laughs uneasily.

"Interesting. I never knew…" Snape muses.

"There are a lot of things you don't know about me." Professor Spektor says dismissively.

"I know almost nothing about you." Snape agrees. "Especially what you were thinking when you jumped off the roof of the astronomy tower a month ago."

"Who told you about that?" She asks, and then shakes her head, and reaches for a half-empty bottle of firewhisky. She takes a generous swig and then offers it to Snape. He looks at the bottle apprehensively. "I haven't got any cups." He takes a conservative sip and hands the bottle back to Spektor.

"There are much easier ways to kill yourself, you know." Snape says flatly.

"Obviously." She says. "If that's what I was trying to do."

"What _were_ you trying to do, then?" Snape furrows his brow.

"I was conducting some tests." She says. That should be vague enough.

"What sort of tests?"

"None of your business."

"These tests wouldn't have anything to do with the other ingredients that have...mysteriously gone missing...from my office...would they?" Snape asks. Spektor starts to smile.

"Ten points to Slytherin." She says. Snape frown wrinkles his great big nose.

"I heard you had an aptitude for potions while at Hogwarts..." Snape says.

"Nobody is better at potions than I am." Her tone is dead serious, and she takes another swig of firewhisky. Snape suppresses the urge to laugh. He has quite a high opinion of _himself_ in that department, but he's curious as to how good she really is.

"So you've developed it then?" Snape asks. Spektor's eyes widen.

"A potion for preventing the body from sustaining physical harm?"

"Well..." Spektor hisses, leaning back in the chair, crossing her arms tight over her chest. "Who told you about _that_?"

"He said that's what you were working on before...well..." Snape notices her face grow stiff, lips a thin line. "It was a nasty bargain, really, I think..." Then a look of confusion washes over her face. Her hands fall into her lap.

"What are you talking about? What was a nasty bargain?"

"What he did to you...you know...how he got you sent to..." Snape is beginning to realize this is news to her. He wants to reel the words back in, but something about the look she's giving him makes him keep going. Her jaw's slackened to the point of appearing unhinged. All her muscles have given up, and she sinks, if possible, even farther back into the hard-backed wooden chair.

"No." She muses aloud. " _No_. He _wouldn't_ … He was the one who was helping me _hide_..."

"I'm sorry." Snape says quickly. This isn't good. And it quickly gets worse. Before Snape can catch her, she faints clear off the chair and onto the hard stone floor—out cold. He hoists her up and, after opening the small door in the corner that leads to her sleeping quarters, deposits her on the small iron bed near the window. Despite the bruise beginning to spread across the left side of her face, where her skull collided with the floor moments before, he sees her beauty for the first time, finally unmasked by her nasty aura, her face relaxed, serene, as if she's slipped into a pleasant dream. What a mess he's just got himself in... He really shouldn't have meddled.

* * *

A bloodcurdling scream leaks from Professor Umbridge's sleeping quarters, and the woman herself has toppled out of bed, brandishing a fluffy pillow at a large black snake coiled on the edge of her bed. She throws the pillow at the filthy reptile, which doesn't do much of anything except give it something else to tear apart rather than her own precious flesh.

"Somebody! Anybody! Help! Come quick! Help me!" She shrieks. After tearing the pillow apart and scattering down feathers all over the room, the snake is nowhere to be found. Umbridge blinks, looking at the spot it was just two seconds ago. It's gone. She tiptoes around the bed, looks underneath, checks the dark corners of the room—nothing. All clear. Did she imagine it? Must have. She puts on her slippers and opens the door to her office, in search of a tonic to sooth her nerves and finds the place ransacked, papers all over the place, every desk drawer pulled out—what an awful mess. At least the decorative kitten plates were safe, she thinks, looking at the walls. Then she sees, on the bare stretch of wall next to the door, a message that makes her faint. Argus Filch, the caretaker, finds her the next morning.

* * *

"What did it say?" Professor Spektor sips the tea Albus Dumbledore just handed her.

"Down with the Pink Menace." Dumbledore says, stirring milk into his tea.

"Heh heh." Her laughter makes Dumbledore look up.

"We haven't had time for a proper talk. I'm afraid I've been rather busy..." Dumbledore says, looking at her through his half-moon spectacles. "If you have a moment, I have a few questions for you."

"I have a question for you first, if you don't mind." Spektor says. Dumbledore nods. "Back at Grimmauld Place, you said that I was to be given a 'special assignment.' Any intention of ever telling me what that is? Unless this teaching thing is it, which, if that is the case, doesn't make much sense to me at all, considering you could've hired a far more qualified teacher with much less hassle."

"Ah, yes." Dumbledore says, placing the teacup in its saucer with a delicate clink. "I was hoping you'd be able to share some insight into your old classmate, Tom Riddle. Anything that would help with the Order's current efforts…"

"That's _it_?" She's a little more than pissed. "I mean, thanks for getting me out of prison and all, but you didn't need to bust me out of Azkaban to chat with me. Hah. So. Ok, let me get this straight: the great Albus Dumbledore lies to get a murderer released from prison so she can read to a bunch of babies from a textbook and chat about her old..." She catches herself. He raises his eyebrows.

"You call yourself a murderer?"

"I killed my sister, didn't I? Oh, but that's right. Sisters don't count." She winks cheekily. A flash of anger crosses his face.

"That...was an accident." Dumbledore says, gravely serious. How does she know about Ariana?

"It's about time you're honest with yourself, Albus." Spektor says, leaning back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. "You know, we're not very different...you and me." Hm. That's an odd thought, and the more she thinks about it, the odder it becomes. They really are quite similar.

"My dear girl." Dumbledore shakes his head, voice dripping with condescension. "Whatever you've heard about the incident with my sister has likely been blown far out of proportion. It was my friend who cast the spell that killed her, not me." He sighs like the ancient old man he is.

"So you want to know about Tom, then?" She sighs. Dumbledore nods. There's this awful feeling bubbling up in the pit of her stomach, like she's aware she's making a terrible mistake. But the information Snape gave her last night has ignited a small fire of revenge within her, and here's a convenient way to satisfy that. She won't say anything personal, or detailed. Just enough to appear as though she's willing to participate. Could help, in the end. "Right then. Where should I start...?"


	11. I: The Yule Ball Pt 1

Chapter 11: V and Tom go on a date to the Yule Ball. Yes, a _date_ date.

* * *

XI.  
The Yule Ball Pt. 1  
[Hogwarts, December 1943]

* * *

There's no place more beautiful than Hogwarts castle during Christmas. The halls and stairways are strung with pine garland, massive trees twinkling with enchanted candles, festive ornaments glittering in the Great Hall, and mistletoe hanging sneakily above thresholds, catching students and teachers alike off guard. This isn't any ordinary mistletoe, it's charmed mistletoe, and those caught underneath it are forced to kiss whoever they are unlucky (or lucky) enough to encounter beneath it. You can imagine what a commotion this tends to create...

It's the night of the ball and Penelope Fairchild still hasn't been asked by anybody yet. Not for lack of interest—most students consider her an unattainable goal, you know, someone best not to bother asking for fear of rejection. But she's holding out hope for Riddle to ask her. Little does she know he's not one to leave anything to the last minute, and has already asked Spektor. Lestrange, on the other hand, always leaves everything to the last minute, and runs to catch up to Spektor as she's walking up one of the moving staircases.

"V, wait!" Lestrange gasps. He jumps on the staircase she's on as it swings to the left, hands on his knees, panting slightly.

"I...uh...the Yule Ball's tonight!"

"Yes, it is." She says, knowing full well what was coming next, and not looking forward to dealing with the consequences.

"How about you go with me?" He says, casually now, standing up at full height.

"No thanks." She says.

"Come on—you can't hide in the dungeons forever! Come out and have a little fun, eh?" Lestrange says, punching her playfully in the arm.

"Someone's already asked me." She says.

"Oh." Lestrange says, his face drooping along with his playful mood. "Well then. Who you going with?"

"You should ask Penelope." She's walking up the stairs now, away from Lestrange, onto the third floor landing.

"Fairchild? Nobody's asked her yet?" Genuine surprise in Lestrange's voice.

"She might still be in the Great Hall if you get a move on." Spektor says over her shoulder, then disappears into the shadows of the third floor corridor. Lestrange bounds down the stairs, back towards the Great Hall. Fairchild is a decent second, but he's pissed that he didn't think to ask Spektor sooner. Who the hell beat him to it, he wants to know.

Penelope Fairchild breezes into the Slytherin girl's dormitory after dinner to find V. Spektor and Julie Pembroke already getting ready. Pembroke's got her dress laid out on her bed, a saucy red number, just low cut enough to really showcase her well-endowed upper half. She's asked Spektor to help her with her hair, which she's presently occupied with.

"Guess who asked me to the ball?" Fairchild says dreamily.

"Your Head Boy?" Pembroke ventures hopefully.

"Sadly, no..." Fairchild says, opening her trunk, taking out a garment wrapped carefully in tissue paper, and laying it on her bed. "His best friend, Lestrange..." She says as she unfolds the tissue paper to reveal a shimmering ice-blue gown. There's a twinge of disappointment to her voice, but it's well masked by her blissful countenance.

"Next best thing, I suppose." Pembroke offers.

"You're going with Kathleen?" Fairchild struggles to remember.

"Just as 'friends.'" Pembroke says with a wink. That's what she has to say, if she doesn't want the wrath of a castle full of bigots to come down on her. If there's one thing that most witches and wizards of the day just won't tolerate, it's homosexuality. But Julie Pembroke and Kathleen Hannigan are probably the most successful gay couple in the school at flying below the radar. They wish they didn't have to, and maybe someday they won't have to. But for now, they're just very good friends, depending on who's asking.

"And you're going too, V?" Fairchild asks, a pot-stirring grin on her sunkissed face.

"Yeah." Spektor says through her teeth, which are clamped down on a bobby pin. Her hands all up in Pembroke's hair, applying a pomade to give it more shine and hold, before she starts with the pin curls.

"She won't tell me who she's going with." Pembroke teases. "Hmmm...I bet it's...no...it couldn't be...Edward O'Connor!"

"Are you kidding?" Spektor says, still through her teeth. "He's going with McGonagall."

"Really?" Fairchild whirls around. Spektor winds a strand of Pembroke's hair and secures it in place with the pin.

"What do you care? You dumped him." Spektor says. One more pin to go, then she waves her wand over Pembroke's hair and the whole thing sets in seconds flat. She then turns her attention to her own hair, taking it down out of the towel sitting atop her head like a turban. Fairchild turns on the radio, and teenage heartthrob Ronnie Warbler's dulcet tones serenade them as they continue to get ready.

All done up, Fairchild looks like a fairy. The dress lends an ethereal quality to her already uncommon beauty, her golden hair cascading around her shoulders, her eyes shining brightly, cheeks delicately rouged.

"Gotta run, see you ladies there!" She says happily as she exits the dormitories. Pembroke's just finished as well, and quickly scoots out the door to meet up with Kathleen in front of the Ravenclaw common room. Spektor's hair is perfect—big dark loose curls resting like clouds on her shoulders, soft and weightless. She's applying her signature lipstick, a deep rose, and carefully traces around the rims of her eyes with thick black eyeliner, drawing it up into wings at the corners. Unlike the other two girls, Spektor's opted for more subtle attire—a deep green floor-length velvet dress, long sleeves, a slight train in the back where the hem drags along the floor. Very regal. Practically ancient. The neck is cut in a deep v, although it doesn't seem as revealing as Pembroke's because, quite honestly, Spektor doesn't have much to show off. On her bedside table is a necklace, a green eye framed in silver, on a delicate silver chain, which she fastens around her neck. She slips on a pair of black heels, takes a long swig from her flask, and exits the dormitories, walking carefully down hallway to the common room, where a tall, dark figure waits in front of the fireplace, studying the flames impatiently, trying hard not to pace, to fidget, and instead standing still as stone.

* * *

Tom Riddle turns around abruptly as Victoria Spektor approaches. The whiff of rosemary and lavender he catches is unexpected, but he knows it has to be her. She is the one he's waiting for, after all. But he isn't prepared for this moment. She's the same person, of course, and he knows full well what she looks like—how could he forget? But seeing her there, walking towards him, in clothing not only different from her school uniform but also incredibly _elegant_ , he feels his heart picking up the pace inside the cage of his chest.

Drawing closer, the warm light from the fireplace is casting Riddle in a golden glow, softening the features of his face somewhat. He's wearing a simple black suit, black shirt, and, interestingly, no tie. God damn... She takes a deep breath, steadies herself, tries to keep her head level, her pulse steady.

"Sorry to keep you waiting." She says, a nervous edge to her voice that she wished she didn't let slip through.

"I was starting to worry you'd changed your mind..." He says, a small smile twitching in the corner of his mouth. "Shall we?" He holds out his hand. She hesitates for a split second, then takes it, her own hand feeling small and cold inside his. As he escorts her out of the common room his palms are sweating and there's nothing he can do about it. They walk down the corridors, both quietly shut up in their own minds, until a nagging thought prompts Spektor to speak up.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" she asks her silent companion.

"What?"

"Why did you ask me to come with you to this? It was rather...unexpected."

"Well, since I'm Head Boy, I'm obligated to go...and I needed a date. Besides, everyone's bringing dates to this."

"Since when do you care about what everyone else is doing?"

"Since when do you care so much about my decisions?"

"Fine. But why me?"

"I dunno, Spektor. I guess I...don't really mind spending time with you..."

"Yeah sure. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer..."

"We're enemies?" Tom stops abruptly.

"You tell me."

"If you were my enemy, you would know."

"Ok..."

"What do you actually want to ask me?"

"Well...Is this a date? A real _date_?"

"What else would it be?" He snaps.

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, Spektor...This is a date." Riddle says after a long pause.

"A _date_ date?"

"Bloody hell—yes, Victoria Spektor. I asked you on a _date_. And may I remind you that you said _yes_ , so I don't have the slightest idea what you're confused about. If you don't want to be my date, then you can go back to the common room."

"No—no, it's fine. Good. Yes. Good. Not a problem. Glad we cleared that up." Spektor fights back a smile. Riddle rolls his eyes. They continue the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

A/N: The Yule Ball chapter became a bit too unwieldy so I broke it up into three parts because...well...I guess I'm just averse to long chapters... Anyways, as always, thanks for the reviews!


	12. I: The Yule Ball Pt 2

Chapter 12: An unexpectedly lovely evening commences.

* * *

XII.  
The Yule Ball Pt. 2  
[The Great Hall | December 1943]

* * *

The entrance hall is full of excited, chattering students decked out to the nines in whatever finery they could drudge up from the depths of their trunks. Riddle and Spektor pause at the top of the stairs briefly before descending into the din. He's still holding her hand, albeit stiffly, formally, and she, feeling him tense up, gives him a small squeeze for reassurance. More of an impulse really. He cocks his head sideways ever so slightly, glancing at her, that small smile cropping up again. There is something sad about it. The smile, that is. Why were they both so uncomfortable? So nervous? What was there to be nervous about? Underneath the surface layer of weird tension something does feel right, to be there, together, descending the staircase, into a sea of their peers. Whatever "right" means. Perhaps it's more like a shift, something settling into its proper place.

Nobody notices them as they weave their way to the door of the Great Hall. It's a nice feeling, one that both parties equally take comfort in. Flashbulbs crack. Friends pose, laugh, linking arms and goofing off. Spektor catches sight of Penelope Fairchild tossing her hair over her shoulder, throwing her head back in captivating, albeit over-dramatic, laughter. It's plain to see Lestrange is quickly falling under her spell. And there's Olive Hornby with a sour look on her face, her date, Will Braxton, a Hufflepuff as well, distressed and babbling an apology. Someone should've warned him Hornby has very high expectations. Avery's ambling down the stairs with a girl practically twice his height—not difficult to manage, as Avery's of the short-and-stout variety. V sort of misses being his potions partner, if only to be able to scold him when he does something bizarre like shove tarantula legs up his nose. Then she glances up at her current potions partner. She's walking so close she can see the pores in his smooth pale skin, the individual hairs prickling at the back of his neck. He's grasping her hand like she's a shield, a barrier between him and everyone else. That's how it feels, at least. And she isn't completely wrong.

"Ah, Tom! There you are. Good. Now we can begin." Headmaster Dippet is standing in front of the doors to the Great Hall, along with Minerva McGonagall and Edward O'Connor. O'Connor politely smiles at the two of them as they approach. Although McGonagall turns her head in their direction, it's more as though she's looking straight through them.

"Begin what?" Riddle asks. Dippet gives him a look of utter confusion.

"Begin the ball, what else! The Head Boy and Head Girl always have the first dance. Now you'll go first with...it's Victoria isn't it?...and then Minerva and Edward will follow..."

"I thought I only had to be here for the Yule King and Queen thing..." Riddle says, frowning.

"Have you never been to one of these, boy?" Dippet laughs. Riddle scowls. Obviously. "Well it's just one dance. I'm sure it won't be that unbearable." Dippet jokes, clapping him on the back. Riddle looks like he's ready to hex him.

"I have to go out there, in front of all those people, and _dance_ with you?" Spektor whispers in his ear. So _cheeky_ , he thinks, it's a wonder she's on such good terms with people. Why doesn't anyone ever put her in her place?

"Don't get too excited." His response is definitely sarcastic.

"Here we go!" Dippet pips excitedly, flinging open the doors and allowing the students to enter at last. Once they've all gone inside, the orchestra strikes up and a path is cleared for the procession. Riddle juts his elbow out and Spektor loops her arm through. She can feel the anxiety leaking from him, despite his confident, almost militant, stance. It's no mystery that he hates surprises.

The house tables have been cleared out for the occasion and replaced by smaller circular tables, which are dotted around the outskirts of the room. Each is draped with a crimson table cloth and adorned with a miniature evergreen in the center, skirted with a wreath of branches scented with cinnamon and clove. The enchanted ceiling above them is sparkling with a million brilliant stars, and at least twenty-five full-size evergreens have been brought in from the forest, all decked out and spectacularly fragrant. There is a comforting warmth to the room, despite the size and commotion.

Once the couples reach the middle of the floor, Dippet signals for the orchestra to begin, and the first dance commences. Riddle turns to face Spektor and bows rigidly. She replies with a small curtsey. Then he confidently takes her hand and places his other on her waist. She flinches slightly at his touch, not because it's unwelcome, but precisely the opposite. Stop being stupid, she tells herself. She places her hand delicately on his shoulder. It's a mid-tempo waltz, nothing too difficult, thankfully. Spektor allows herself to be swept up like a feather, effortlessly gliding across the floor in Riddle's sturdy arms. He's holding his breath practically the entire time, concentrating intensely on every step, keenly aware of all the eyes following him...All the better though. See—Tom Riddle goes to parties, dances with girls, is just your average person...Nothing out of the ordinary. Spektor glances over at McGonagall and O'Connor, engaged in a jerky one-two-three that was almost unbearable to watch. After what seems like hours but is really only a minute or two, the rest of the guests are signaled to join in. Once incorporated into the fold the crowd, Spektor ventures a glance up at her partner.

"I didn't know you were a _dancer_." She teases.

"I'm not." He says dismissively. Then, "Thank god that's over with."

"Yeah really." She says. Then, "Not that it was awful though...Dancing with you, I mean. You're good..." She babbles. He surveys her for a moment, his expression unreadable.

"Thanks." He says. "You're not bad..."

"Would you say we...make a good team?" It slips out of her mouth before she can stop it. And just like that, his cheeks turn as red as her lips. She can't help but blush also. This is not happening. Absolutely not. Stupid cheeky good-for-nothing flirt, she scolds herself.

"A bit warm in here, isn't it?" He asks uncomfortably, looking away, glancing around the room for the first time since they've arrived, as if looking for the closest exit.

"I wouldn't say no to a pumpkin juice..." She says. He nods in agreement. She leads him through the crowd to the refreshment table, where they find Julia Pembroke and Kathleen Hannigan hanging around, partaking in some cranberry tarts. A delicate crown of woven holly branches sits atop Kathleen's bright red hair. She's always struck Spektor as having an elf-like look about her.

"Aha so the mystery is solved." Pembroke chuckles, nudging Hannigan. Spektor rolls her eyes. "Could you pass me two of those pumpkin juices?" She asks Pembroke, who is standing in front of the goblets. She hands two to Spektor, smirking all the while.

"You two actually look quite good together." Hannigan says, her voice breathy like a wooden flute, "How long have you been going out then?"

"We're not." Spektor and Riddle say at exactly the same time, with the same degree of conviction.

"Alright then." Hannigan says, and she and Pembroke giggle. "Sure, whatever you say." Riddle's begun to wander down to the other end of the refreshment table.

"Sorry, excuse me." Spektor says, inching away.

"Go on then, go find your lover boy." Says Pembroke, shooing her away. Spektor scowls and stalks off to where Riddle's standing, at the far end of the refreshment table. He picks up a cauldron cake and, when he notices her approaching, offers it to her. She accepts it and takes a bite.

"So what's this Yule King and Queen thing then?" Spektor asks.

"Haven't you ever been to one of these things before?" He asks sourly, repeating Dippet's earlier comment to him.

"Are you kidding? I probably wouldn't be here right now if you didn't ask me." She says. Was she slipped a truth serum or something? Because she's practically spewing this stuff. Riddle raises his eyebrows, snapping, if only for a second, out of his mood.

"Hmmm. I heard you turned Lestrange down. He was rather beat up about it really..."

"You didn't tell him you asked me? I thought you two were friends?"

"You didn't tell him I asked you? I thought _you two_ were friends." Riddle smirks.

"Alright. I get it. What's your point?" Spektor's fiddling with the hem of her sleeve.

"The Yule King and Queen are chosen by the students at the end of the dance. It's a popularity contest, really. McGonagall and I have the 'honor' of crowning them. There's a little ceremony. Everyone claps."

"You can't just change the subject like that." Spektor snaps.

"Do you want to have another dance?" Riddle asks.

"Wait, what?"

"Another dance. Yes or no?" He almost sounds angry.

"Um. Sure." She says, pleased, but also confused. But they are at a dance after all. That is what they are here to do. He offers her his hand, which she takes, this time without as much hesitation, and he leads her back onto the dance floor. Without the pressure and formality of the previous dance, he quickly relaxes, and she finds herself doing the same. Whatever anger or moodiness that was building up inside him is starting to erode.

"Are you beginning to _enjoy_ yourself?" She scoffs, smiling.

"Isn't that the point?" He says, cracking a smile himself.

"That's what I hear." She says. He twirls her, hair a dark cloud around her face, and when she comes back around she locks eyes with him. Maybe she's picked up a thing or two from Fairchild. Or maybe she should give herself more credit.

"And are you... _enjoying_ yourself?" He asks. She doesn't answer—just gives a small nod. The music slows. Riddle draws her closer, close enough to get a real nose-full of that rosemary lavender perfume she is wearing, to feel her breath on his neck. She can feel his heart beating fast.

"You're rushing." He whispers in her ear. It's true. She takes a deep breath and slows a bit.

Then, something within compels her to lower her head, to rest it on his shoulder. She breathes in, noting his scent—dust and ink, with a faint hint of woodsmoke. His heart beats faster. For a few minutes everything is a dream. Then an annoying voice over Spektor's shoulder draws them back into reality.

"How long has _this_ been going on then, hmm?" It's Lestrange, and he's pissed. Of course he is. Why can't people mind their own business? Must everyone over-react about _everything_? Spektor jerks around, Riddle stiffens, his mouth drawn into a thin frown.

"What?" Spektor shrugs.

"You could've just _told_ me." Lestrange huffs. "You think it's fun to just lead me on?"

"Lead you on?" Spektor repeats, confused. "Was I...?"

"Back off, Lestrange." Riddle orders. Lestrange raises his eyebrows.

"I don't have to do what you say!" Lestrange spits.

"You don't?" Riddle says, dangerously casual, raising his eyebrows. Lestrange considers that for a moment. He can't fight Riddle. Nobody can. He's seen what Riddle's done to those who try.

"It's not like it matters..." Lestrange says offhandedly. "Why should I care who Spektor's fucking?" A dangerous silence falls. It takes Lestrange a moment to realize the depth of the shit is he's just stepped in. Before he realizes what's happening, a fist is colliding with the side of his face. He stumbles back and falls flat on his ass. His left eye is throbbing. Squinting up at the figure standing over him, he almost wets himself. It's Victoria Spektor, her knuckles bleeding, her lips twisted in what looks like a grin. Perhaps it's just the angle he's seeing her from. She offers a hand to help him up. He takes it eagerly. Once he's standing on his feet she clocks him again, this time in the jaw. He staggers back, cupping his jaw in his hands. Those around them are starting to back away now, clearing the space for what seems like a fight. But this isn't really a fight. Lestrange contemplates a counter attack, but he doesn't really want to fight back. She's just standing there, hands at her sides, watching him. No. He doesn't deserve this. They've known each other almost their entire lives. They're meant to be together. The wound to his pride is perhaps worse than the injuries he's sustained to his face, and pride, in the end, wins out. He steps forward, reaches his hand inside the pocket of his dress robes, and is just about to draw his wand, when Riddle steps forward, shielding her from the potential attack.

"Careful..." Riddle's tone is venomous. "If you draw your wand, Lestrange, I can guarantee you'll regret it." Lestrange freezes, his eyes wide, panicked. Nobody moves.

"Go wash up. You look awful." Spektor advises. Lestrange shoots her a thoroughly wounded look and makes a hasty exit. The small crowd of onlookers disperse. Riddle turns to Spektor, who's glancing down at her hands. She can't tell if the blood is hers or Lestrange's.

"Remind me to never offend you." He says. She looks up and laughs.

"I don't think I'll need to remind you." She says, then heaves a sigh. "Honestly, I've been wanting to do that for a long time."

"You look pleased." He says. She winks. They're walking back towards the refreshment table when they're suddenly both rooted to the ground where they stand. Spektor nudges him, pointing above their heads at a clump of mistletoe dangled by the hand of Peeves, the resident poltergeist and insufferable troublemaker.

"Oh go pick on someone else, you tosser." Riddle shouts angrily at Peeves. The poltergeist just sticks his tongue out, blowing a raspberry in Riddle's face. You could say he has a bit of a fondness for tormenting Riddle, and there's nothing he can do about it. Riddle then shifts his gaze to Spektor, standing by his side, dark eyes glinting in the candlelight. Black, actually. Her eyes are black. He never noticed. How strange. He could've sworn they were gray.

"I have to _kiss_ you now?" She raises an eyebrow.

"Unfortunately." He says, turning fully to face her. He cautiously reaches out a hand and brushes her hair to the side. She tilts her chin up, and after what feels like eternity, his lips are on hers, so softly, a very restrained kiss. Then he breaks away, eyes still locked on her, frowning slightly as he studies her. He immediately wants to kiss her again—although he has no idea whether she would accept another. And for some reason that matters. In her expression there are no clues. She appears to be lost in a thought.

Peeves disappears along with the mistletoe to go torment some other unsuspecting couple. Time starts to creep back up to normal speed again, but they're both still stuck in this weird state, physically able to move now, but not bothering to. He traces the edge of her face with his thumb, then feels her arms reach up to drape around his shoulders—an action prompting a sudden sinking feeling inside his chest. She moves in swiftly, her lips pressing against his, lingering a bit before pulling away.

"Well then..." He muses. She winks. His cheeks flash scarlet again. He moves in for another kiss, but she places a finger to his lips.

"Not here." She whispers. He nods.


	13. I: The Yule Ball pt 3

A/N: I've been stupidly busy, and will be for the rest of this week, so apologies for the delay-I meant to have this up days ago. Thanks, as always, for reading & reviewing! This is a long one... I was gonna break it up but what the hell, here it is:

* * *

CHAPTER XIII

The Yule Ball Pt. 3

[The Grounds | December 1943]

* * *

Now this whole thing that's started between Victoria Spektor and Tom Riddle is enough to tilt not only their lives, but the entire wizarding world, off course—and in a way neither of them can fully expect. It's one of those alignments that, in hindsight, when you examine the probabilities and alternate courses, you think to yourself _what if this never happened_? _Was this the tipping point_?

There's a warmth in the great hall so thick it sticks with the pair through the entrance hall and out onto the grounds. Snow is falling softly from the winter sky, and they tread slowly through the drifts at their feet. There are a few other students outside as well, getting some air, among other things. Spektor shivers a bit, the winter wind finally penetrating the aura of warmth surrounding her. Riddle takes off his jacket and she slips it on, drawing her arms in close to her body as he in turn draws her closer to him.

"So I was doing some research in the library about a rather esoteric subject and I was wondering if you couldn't maybe...help me figure something out..." He asks casually. She immediately knows what he's on about.

"Maybe I can...Depends on what you know." She says slowly, her eyes fixed on the ground to avoid twisting her ankle on an unexpected patch of ice.

"Well..." He says, grinning, "I found out some interesting things about devils...thought you'd be rather well-versed on the subject..."

"Not as much as I should be..." She starts.

"...Seeing as you are one." He finishes for her. She's trying to think of what to say next, although really, there isn't much she needs to say at all. The only sound is snow crunching underfoot.

"Nobody knows." She says, stopping, fixing him with a penetrating stare. There's fire in those dark eyes. He can feel it.

"Except me." He states. She nods. "Not even your family?"

"Well of course my father knows. It's his fault." She says, as though stating the obvious. Riddle's waiting expectantly for her to continue. "Apparently my father was involved with a deviless who worked at the Embassy in London (I'm sure you were at least able to find some info on that), before he met Victoria, who I've always thought was my mum. Just found out this past summer, actually."

"You just found out?"

"Got into an argument with my mum while she was drunk and it just sort of slipped out." She says. Then, in a high-pitched wispy voice mimicking her mother's, "At least you're not my child, what a shame it would've been to be responsible for giving birth to _you_." She laughs to herself. Then, in her own voice again, "I don't even remember what we were arguing about. I think she didn't like my attitude or something..."

"So you're half-devil, half-witch." Riddle works it out in his head. A half-blood, albeit a more sinister mixture, but still, a half-blood like him.

"An abomination." She says. "That's what They call me. And that's what your lot would call me too if they knew. Nobody can ever know. At least until I get it sorted out..."

"Sorted out?" Riddle's eyes light up.

"I've been doing some research. It's damn near impossible to find anything useful in the library here—as you've noticed I'm sure—and now that Slughorn probably won't give me any more permission slips for the Restricted Section after our...incident..." She drifts off, consumed with a thought. Riddle waits for her to resume, listening intently. "He suspects something. I know it. He's probably the only Hogwarts professor who'd know anything about any of this anyway...except maybe Dumbledore, but I don't think he likes me at all..."

"That's not surprising. He's definitely got his favorites. McGonagall, for one." Riddle says.

"You think we could—" She starts, but then stops abruptly.

"I like they way you think." He smirks.

"But if I use the imperius curse on McGonagall I'll be expelled, Tom." She says.

"Who said anything about using the imperius curse?" He says.

"Even if we used polyjuice potion...it's too risky. Really now, why would McGonagall ever ask Dumbledore about soul extraction?"

"What now?"

"Oh come on—I thought you did your research." She scoffs. He thinks for a moment, running through all the facts he's managed to compile about people— er...creatures like her. One book on defensive magic detailed how to spot a devil trying to blend in with a group of humans. He tries to recall the passage:

 _Devils rarely intermingle with witches and wizards, preferring to surround themselves with their own kind. However they do occasionally venture out of the Underworld, and it behoves wizards to be able to recognize them in order to take the proper precautions. These beings are charming, tricky, and at first glance appear surprisingly like their human counterparts. One easy way to spot one is to look at their hands—if you count six fingers you're in trouble. Next, the eyes will be completely black, with just a small bit of whites visible, if any. These beings also have no scent of their own, but this is a trait that can be easily covered up by perfume. Be on guard if you notice any of these signs, as you are dealing with an extremely dangerous magical creature that, despite having many similarities to humans, is missing one fundamental element: a soul._

"You're a devil with a soul. An impossibility." He muses, feeling her starting to shiver.

"An abomination." She mutters.

"No." He stops abruptly, turning to face her. The wind blows up loose snow, sending it swirling around them, a thousand tiny icicles slicing at their skin. "Not an abomination—an exception."

"That's a very... _nice_...thing to say." Is he being genuine? It's hard to tell.

"Why would you wish to be average?" He says. She rolls her eyes. That's not it at _all_.

"No, you don't understand. There's something very _wrong_. I feel it. Like my body's fighting against itself, trying to...destroy itself or something. It's painful." She says. "This has nothing to do with what other people think. I could really care less. I just want to be left alone, really." She pauses, thinking for a moment of the sheer absurdity that she's standing outside on a cold December night talking about this with Tom Riddle of all people. "I just want to be ok." She says. The mood's gotten so heavy it's unbearable. He nods, frowning, and...is that a look of pity she detects on his face? No. That won't do. After a moment she starts to back away from him. "So you know my secret..." She says in a slight singsong. "Now I'll have to kill you."

"You're kidding, right?" Riddle responds a little too seriously. She winks. He wishes she'd stop doing that. It's too much.

"We're still friends then?" She says, more seriously now.

"Again, are you kidding?"

"No. Wait, what? Are you?"

"No."

"Good."

"Friends?"

"What else?" She arches an eyebrow. "I stole cake for you...I went to this stupid ball with you..."

"Listen, Victoria..." He says, reaching out to take her hand, then pausing briefly to study it—her veins almost black beneath her skin, like thin inky rivers cutting through white marble. He keeps calling her Victoria, which she finds weirdly charming. Although she hates it when anyone else calls her that—preferring just the initial V.—when he says her full name it feels very intimate. She's waiting for him to continue. Then he meets her eyes again—reading her gaze as more greedy than affectionate.

"Yes?" She nods, offering encouragement.

"I'm...quite...fond of you...and if my suspicions are...correct..." He says, his grip tightening.

"They are." Spektor confirms.

"Good. So we've cleared that up..." Despite his calm tone, his cheeks are reddening by the second. "Right...I don't really know what I'm supposed to do...now that I've told you that..."

"You'll have to kill me, I suppose." She says. He blanches. "That was a joke." She quickly clarifies. Is she hitting a nerve? Probably. He exhales through a nervous laugh. "We're even, is what I mean. I told you a secret...you told me one...although I suppose yours is not really that much of a secret..."

"Oh come on." Riddle scoffs. "I suppose I'm like an open book to you, then?"

"Well..." She says with a mischievous grin.

"Victoria Spektor if you read my diary _one more time_ I swear I'll..." He reaches down, grabs a handful of snow, and brandishes it threateningly.

"You'll what?" Spektor taunts. Riddle laughs a high, cold laugh, and lobs the snow right in her face. She shivers, her mouth falling open in shock, wiping snow out of her eyes. Then, without hesitating, she grabs a handful of snow and launches it at Riddle. Serves him right.

"Now look what you've started." He says, forming a large ball. She gets up, attempting to run away, but the snowball hits her square in the back and she tumbles into the snowbank. He runs over and bends down to try and help her up. Instead she grabs his arm and pulls him down into the snow with her, shoving a fluffy chunk of it in his face, cackling impishly all the while. He sits up, roughly wiping the snow off, and glares at Spektor. She's still laughing, pointing at him. And for some strange reason he begins to laugh as well. They're side by side on the snowbank now. A trickle of blood snakes from her nostril and he wipes it away. He didn't mean to hurt her, really.

"You know, it's almost as if you _want_ me to read it..." She muses. "It's not like you're trying to make it difficult..." He doesn't say anything. Hmmmm. "Anyway, I've got a spell you can use to...secure it." She says.

"What's the point if you know how it works?" He asks.

"I'll show you. You'll like it." She says, staring up at the sky.

"Well...then, I've got something for you." He says, propping himself up on one elbow.

"You do?"

"Come here." He says. She scoots even closer, so close she can feel his breath warm her face. And suddenly his lips are upon hers, softly at first, as though testing the waters, and then he dives in. He envelops her, his body pressed close against hers, fitting as though they were cut from the same stuff. Her kiss is like a long sigh finally being released—his, a desperate grappling, his lips clinging to hers as though his life depends on it. Perhaps it does? Spektor is surprised by the intensity, but not put off by it. She ruffles his hair a bit before delicately draping her arms around his neck. She breaks away from his lips and plants tiny kisses along his jaw, then his neck. A shiver shoots up his spine that has nothing to do with the temperature. She retraces her path, now to his ear, where she whispers,

"A bit cold out here, isn't it?" She says.

"We should...go back inside..." He frowns, trying to catch his breath. He tries to move but she holds him still just a moment longer, locking eyes, placing another kiss on his lips, which he returns, before rising to his feet. She takes his hand, which he's extended, and he pulls her up out of the snow. After walking a bit she stumbles and slips on a patch of ice. He catches her just before she falls, and once she's steady on her feet again, he offers her his jacket to keep warm, which she gladly accepts. Once back up at the castle he brushes the clumps of snow out of her hair, and wipes away a bit of smudged lipstick from the corner of her mouth.

"If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were quite the gentleman, Tom." She says cheekily.

"An eye for an eye, Victoria." He says, and, following her example, he winks.

They're walking through the entrance hall now. A few clusters of students are hanging about, the ball still going strong in the great hall, adjacent.

"What the hell happened to you?" Pembroke snorts, catching sight of Spektor as the pair try to slip by unnoticed.

"Don't go outside, it's treacherous." Spektor says, not stopping to converse further. Hair all a mess—she looks like she's been swept up in a blizzard. Riddle looks only marginally less ruffled. But Pembroke notices whose jacket Spektor's wearing, the smudge of lipstick on Riddle's cheek, and smirks.

"Treacherous." Pembroke repeats as the pair fade into the crowd.

* * *

Spektor's nipped off to the girl's bathroom to try to put herself back together. With shivering hands she turns the hot water tap, releasing the steaming liquid into porcelain sink. She slides her hands under the stream, feeling the warmth start to radiate back to the rest of her body. Although she would normally avoid it, she chances a glance up at the mirror. At first it's fine, just her average reflection, and oh boy is her hair a sight. She waves her wand over her head in a sweeping circular motion, and her scraggly curls are once again bouncy and lustrous. She studies herself for just a moment longer, until she notices her teeth beginning to elongate, forming sharp points. Quickly she turns her head away, running her fingers along her teeth, feeling their smooth flat edge and breathing a sigh of relief. The new potion is working quite well. The side effects are not as pleasant as the draught of dreamlife, but it gets the job done. No more creepy bleeding at least. But what's up with the mirrors, she still hasn't figured that out.

As she's leaving she encounters a group of first-years entering the toilets, who stand aside to let her pass. Behind her back she can hear them whispering.

 _Was that...you know...?_

 _Who?  
The one that just knocked out that Slytherin bloke?_

 _Yeah. That her?_

 _Think so._

 _You know what I heard?_

 _What?_

Spektor hangs around the entrance to listen. Even though they're whispering, the acoustics in the bathroom do wonders for amplification.

 _I heard she's got a thing for Ol' Slughorn._

 _Ewwww stop no way._

 _Apparently she's always in his office. Sometimes leaving after curfew..._

The first years have a good giggle over this thought. Spektor shrugs and walks back to the Great Hall. Stupid first years. She finds Riddle with his arms folded, leaning against the stone wall, eyes scanning the room, a stern look on his face.

"Looking for someone?" She says, after sneaking up on him. He actually jumps.

"You sneaky bastard..." He hates surprises. Although he is beginning to grow fond of hers.

"Aha—my girl!" Spektor hears Professor Slughorn exclaim as he approaches from across the room. "Honestly, Victoria, this is the last place I'd think to find _you_." He chuckles, beaming. Seems he's dipped into the holiday spirits. Then he notices Riddle. "Well well, aren't you two quite the pair. You'll have to invite me to the wedding! Haha!" Thankfully, Dippet has just ascended the podium, signaling that it's time for the crowning ceremony. Riddle excuses himself with a curt nod and disappears into the crowd.

"I think you embarrassed him." Spektor says.

"I think it's about time. I worry about him sometimes...a bit too serious, if you know what I mean." Slughorn says. "To be honest, I didn't think you two would get along at all."

"I think you're making a lot of assumptions, sir." Spektor says.

"My dear girl, I'm an old man—I know far more about these matters than you give me credit for."

"Right." Spektor says, thinking about what the first-years said in the bathroom.

"Oh come on now, you're just as bad as he is—you need to loosen up..." He says, rummaging in his robes and pulling out a flask. "Just filled this from a new bottle of aged firewhisky, which I believe is your favorite..." She eyes it greedily. It is her favorite.

"Sir, you are a bad influence." She says, taking the flask, smiling cheekily as she raises it to her lips. Slughorn laughs. Then, ass the first drop of liquor touches her tongue, she collapses on the floor. Slughorn doesn't notice right away, but when he does, he almost collapses himself.

"Dear god, Victoria! Are you alright? Say something!" He's kneeling beside her, all the color drained from his face. Those standing near them back away quickly. He quickly collects her body from the ground and, before attracting any more attention, carries her from the Great Hall.

* * *

His feet fall heavy on the flagstone, echoing through the empty corridors all the way down into the dungeons. He sets her down in an armchair in his office, propping her legs up on a footstool, and then sets to rummaging through his desk. In a matter of seconds he finds a beozar and slips it into her mouth. He hovers over his unconscious student, watching her intensely, looking for signs of breathing. When she finally does heave a breath he almost faints again. Her eyes open slowly, at first not recognizing where she is, but the picture soon comes into focus. She's in Slughorn's office. What the _hell_ is she doing there?

"Sir?" She says groggily.

"Thank god...I thought you were dead..." He says. His breathing is labored, his forehead glistens with sweat.

"Dead? Why would I be that?" She says, squinting. "What happened? Where's Tom?"

"Oh my dear girl..." Slughorn paces in front of her, "What's the last thing you remember?"

"I was standing next to you...we were in the Great Hall...you handed me a flask..." She struggles to recall. He nods.

"It was poisoned." He says gravely. Spektor's eyes widen.

"You poisoned me?" Her voice is trembling with anger.

"No no I would never!" He says, shaking his hands in front of him, resuming his earlier place near the armchair. "That whole bottle was poisoned. I just tested it. Was given to me as a gift. Just got it, actually." He stammers.

"Yeah? Who gave it to you?" She demands. Slughorn pauses. He can't lie to her.

"Albus Dumbledore." He says quietly.

"Why would Professor Dumbledore want to poison you?" Hah yeah right, she thinks, a likely story.

"The strange thing is that I don't even really like firewhisky. I'm much more of a brandy man myself. I just keep it around because I know that...well...its your favorite..."

"And you think Dumbledore knows that?" Spektor scoffs. "You think Professor Dumbledore gave you the bottle because he knew you'd pour me a drink from it and you wouldn't have any yourself. You sound awfully paranoid, sir." But she can't help thinking the exact same thing.

"I don't know. No, of course not. I'd never accuse him of that. Albus Dumbledore is a great man."

"Yes but is he a good man, sir?" Spektor says.

"I am so sorry, Victoria. I feel absolutely terrible, I meant you no harm—you must believe me."

"Of course I believe you." She says, shaking the Dumbledore thought out of her head for the time being. Something else, something much more useful, has just occurred to her. Whether he liked it or not, Horace Slughorn was now in her debt.

"I would offer you a beverage, but I have a feeling we won't be drinking together for a long time." He says, trying to laugh off the heavy mood.

"No, thank you though. But you could answer a question for me..." She says.

"Sure, my dear. What's on your mind?"

"Well..." She begins, but is interrupted when the door of Slughorn's office opens. Tom Riddle strides in, making a beeline towards the young woman in the armchair.

"Are you alright? What happened? I saw you collapse." The questions come rapid fire, like it's some sort of interrogation.

"Sorry to disappear like that. Apparently I was poisoned." She says. "Ask him, he knows all about it." She jerks her thumb in Slughorn's direction. Riddle swivels to face the professor.

"Poisoned, sir?" He asks Slughorn, who nods. "How?"

"It's...uh...my fault, I'm afraid. I offered her a nip of tainted firewhisky. Of course I didn't _know_ it was tainted..." Slughorn watches nervously as a wave of anger washes over the young man in front of him. "But luckily I had a beozar handy...a potions master is always prepared, you see..."

"She could've died." Riddle says coldly.

"Well...I'm deeply sorry, of course. It was an accident, you know, a complete accident. I would never ever harm Victoria—would never _dream_ of it." Slughorn stammers, sweating again. Riddle sizes up the poor, shaken potions master. Of course he didn't want to poison Spektor. Everyone knows he favors her over practically every other one of his students, for some reason or another. "Please, sit down Tom. I don't think Victoria will mind—after all, she was just asking for you a moment ago." Slughorn draws over another chair. Riddle glances over at Spektor, raising his eyebrows. She winks, blushing slightly. Slughorn puts a pot of tea on and brings it over. Neither student dares drink it first.

"So what was it you wanted to ask me, Victoria?" Slughorn says, after sipping his tea. Seeing as he neither chokes nor collapses in an unconscious heap on the floor, they decide it is safe to drink.

"Actually, it was something Tom wanted to know—I told him I'd ask you for him if I ran into you. But seeing as he's here right now, he might as well ask you himself..." She sneaks Riddle a look. He catches on. "See, he's doing some research on-"

"Soul extraction, sir." Riddle says, cutting Spektor off. "I was reading about it in the library but I couldn't find any comprehensive information on actually _how_ that's done."

"My dear boy, I don't know why you'd want to know anything about that. Dark stuff, that is. Messing with souls. I wouldn't advise it..." Slughorn doesn't even connect the incident with Spektor in his office a few weeks ago.

"I'd just like to better understand it, that's all. It sounds so...strange..." Riddle says, then takes a sip of tea.

"Well...If this is just for...you know...academic purposes..."

"Of course, sir." Riddle says.

"You're right, it is rather strange...See, in order to extract a part of your soul, you first must split it..." Slughorn says, looking uncomfortable. "You know how that's done, I trust..."

"Yes. Murder."

"Right. So...there is one method I'm aware of...in which a witch or wizard takes a piece of their soul and binds it to an item...which is then called a horcrux."

"Why would someone want to do that?" Riddle asks. "Put a piece of their soul in something?"

"It's a form of protection—if your body happens to be destroyed, the piece of your soul inhabiting the object—the horcrux—is still alive..."

"Hmm. I suppose that would be...beneficial..." Riddle muses. He looks over at Spektor, who's listening intently.

"I hope that's a satisfactory answer. It's been a long day and I'm not really in the mood to carry on talking about such things."

"Yes, thank you. We should probably get going..." He places his teacup on the floor and rises to his feet. "I'll escort Miss Spektor back to our common room." He says, offering his hand to help her up. She's a bit unsteady on her feet, but other than that, nearly fully recovered.

"Good. Good." Slughorn says, "Make sure you drink plenty of water, Victoria, and get a good night's rest." Spektor nods silently, and allows herself to be lead out of the office by Riddle. As soon as they turn a corner she grabs the front of his robes, pulls him towards her, and kisses him. She breaks away immediately.

"Brilliant." She whispers excitedly.

"I know I am." He drawls.

"Shut up." She says, then kisses him again. She's finally got something to go on. This will be a much more productive holiday than expected.


	14. I: The Six-Fingered Gentleman

Chapter 14: Strange meetings and unsettling discoveries.

* * *

XIV.  
The Six-Fingered Gentleman  
[London | December 23, 1943]

* * *

The rain spits cold against V. Spektor's face as she struggles with the crummy umbrella she nicked from the coat closet. She's already beginning to regret venturing out this evening, but time is of the essence. Over the past few months her father has taken seriously ill, and the fact that his illness coincides with hers—although their symptoms are very different—has been concerning her more and more. It's as though his entire being is fading—he's lost almost all of his memory, his voice is barely audible, and, strangely, V.'s own perception of her father is fading as well. Recalling memories of him from her childhood is becoming a struggle, and she swears she almost forgot his name just the day before.

She was at his bedside, lighting a candle so he could see his book of photographs. It soothes him, he says, to flip through the pages, look in on snippets of memories. For days has been staring at this one photograph in particular—a gnarled tree perched on the edge of a riverbank, a stone bridge in the foreground, slightly out of focus. There's a shadowed figure beside the tree, who V. guesses is a woman.

"Why d'you keep looking at that picture? It gives me the creeps." V. says, trying to turn the page for him. He puts his hand down heavily on the page to stop her.

"Every night. She visits me. In my dreams." He says, not looking up, but continuing to stare down at the book.

"Who is she?" V. asks.

"Your mother." He says. "Lenora." It's the first time she's ever heard her mother's name.

"Lenora." V. repeats the name. It doesn't feel like mother. "What does she say? In your dream?"

"Nothing." He holds up his hand, palm spread wide open. "She goes like this. But she's got six fingers..." He pauses. "You know, I always wanted to tell you. About Lenora. About…all that. But it would've been too much. You never would've grown to be the person you are today, with that kind of weight upon you."

"I don't see how it makes any difference." V says curtly. "I had a right to know. To know the truth."

"The truth is, you're my daughter. And I love you very much." Septimus Spektor says weakly, straining to look his daughter in the eye.

"What happened to her? To my mum?" V asks, removing the picture from the book and holding it up to look at it more closely.

"She died shortly after she gave birth to you." Septimus says, turning the page of the photo book, moving on to other things. "She would've liked you though. You remind me a lot of her."

"What was she like?" V sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the photograph.

"Curious, brilliant, and, if I may say, hauntingly beautiful." Septimus says, a smile lighting up his pale, heavily wrinkled face. "It's a shame, that there's such a…rift…between them and us. I never noticed much of a difference…"

"But what about _me_ , dad? What does that make _me_?" She says, looking at her father. "I'm not one of them. But I'm not one of you either."

"I…I can't…" A great shadow passes over him. "You should…speak to…" He reaches for the parchment and quill he keeps on his bedside, for writing down brilliant thoughts that occur to him in his dreams. "Go here. He can tell you. I…I can't…" He folds the piece of parchment and presses it into her hand.

"Dad?" She pauses as she moves to leave the room. He looks up at her. "Did you love my mum?"

"Yes. Very much so." He says solemnly.

"And…do you love Victoria?"

"In a different way, yes." He says, turning back to his book.

"I'll…leave you to it, then." She goes to exit again, but stops at the door when she realizes she still has the photograph in her hand. She walks back over to hand it to him, but he shakes his head.

"You keep it." He says. "I don't need it anymore." V smiles sadly at her father and leaves, shutting the door quietly behind her.

* * *

She's got the umbrella up now, and she's walking quickly down an empty cobblestone street in Lambeth, lamps flickering in the dense gloom. This is the first time she's ever been south of the Thames, she thinks, as she tries to get her bearings. She steps in a puddle and the icy water floods into her black leather boots, their thin soles soaking up the moisture like parchment. Almost there. Just around the corner. And she comes to a large steel gate, behind which an austere brick building looms. She skirts the fence, around to the side, looks both ways, counts to three in her mind, and disappears—or so it seems. Where she had been standing, a large black snake is now coiled. She slithers effortlessly through a gap in the iron fence and into the small dirt lot behind the building that should be a garden. Now to find the right window... There are only a handful of windows still illuminated. She tries to catch glimpses of their inhabitants, but no luck. _Look out the window_. She hisses as loud as she can manage. _Over here. Look over here_. Her beady eyes catch sight of a second-floor window being opened farther, and a dark-haired boy peering out, scanning the dark yard. He shakes his head and walks away from the window. Gotcha.

Back in human form now, she picks up a small rock and throws it at the window. It clatters noisily off the glass, drawing the boy back within view. This time he sees her, standing in the darkness below, looking up at him. She motions for him to come down with a wave of her hand. He doesn't move. She repeats the hand gesture more forcefully. He disappears for a moment, then emerges from the window, and slides effortlessly down the drainpipe.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He says, his feet thudding on the damp ground. "Miss me that much, do you? It's only been a few days..." He drawls sarcastically.

"I need you to come with me." She says, surveying with mild amusement the Heir of Slytherin dressed in a grubby grey muggle pea coat and practically threadbare gloves.

"It's the middle of the night..." Is he scowling or smiling? It's difficult to tell.

"It's urgent." She says, pulling the photograph out of her pocket. "And, well...I'd feel better if you came with me. It would be good to have some backup in case things get...weird..."

"What exactly are you about to do?" He cocks an eyebrow.

"I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't important." She says. He knows that's true. And he's really quite happy she's just shown up out of the blue—although they'd only been on holiday a few days he'd already begun to miss her. Not that he's going to tell her that.

"So where are we going?" he asks.

"It's not far from here. C'mon."

* * *

They're winding through the streets now, huddled under the umbrella, squinting at street signs, trying to keep the parchment from getting wet as they keep glancing at the address. After a quarter of an hour, they find themselves in front of a large tenement near the docks, and push back the arched door to enter it's cavernous foyer. The interior smells of damp decay, the lighting is poor, and the sounds of hundreds of tenants echo off the chipping plaster walls.

"Do you actually know this person?" Riddle asks as they descend the set of stairs leading to the basement. The stairs are rickety and he's about to put his hand on the bannister but immediately decides against it, as it's coated in decades worth of grime. She must not have heard him. God only knows what he's walking into. Not that he's worried. He hangs a few steps behind her, watching her move towards the red door at the end of the dimly lit hallway. Her boots squelch with each step, raindrops still cling to her long woolen coat. Her hair's all caught up in her scarf and he feels compelled to fix it for her, but stops himself. They've both reached the door now, and Spektor knocks three times. They wait impatiently, water dripping irritatingly from the pipes, faulty fluorescent bulb buzzing overhead.

"Guess they're not home." She turns her back to the door and looks up at Riddle, who's watching it intently. He nods his head, motioning with his eyes for her to turn back around. The door had opened just a crack.

"Hello?" She ventures, "I'm...uh...Victoria Spektor. My father, Septimus, sent me to speak with you..." The door opens fully now, revealing a short, stocky gentleman in a white three-piece suit and red bow-tie. His hair is white as well, and slicked back with a whole tub's-worth of pomade. This gentleman appraises the two scruffy-looking teenagers with a bemused expression.

"Victoria Spektor. Hmm well...Your time's just about up, then, isn't it? Why don't you come in..." He moves aside, extending his arm into the dark interior in what he intends as a welcoming gesture. Once Spektor crosses the threshold, the gentleman moves to block Riddle's entrance.

"And who's this?" He asks as if he already knows.

"Tom Riddle, sir."

"A human?"

"Yes, sir." Now that's a question Tom's never been asked before…

"Of course you are. Well, I can already see where this is going...Come on in then. Don't touch anything." The gentleman barks, hurrying him inside and pulling the door shut. Spektor's already wandered into the sitting room, a cramped space draped in red velvet. A fire's burning in the small brick fireplace, and a cigar is smoldering in an ashtray near a wingback armchair. Somewhere in the room a jazz record is playing, but she can't seem to find the phonograph. She's studying the titles on the bookshelf when Riddle and the gentleman enter. The gentleman strides over to the armchair and resumes his position, perching the cigar between his lips and taking a long drag. Riddle sits down on the couch opposite the fireplace, and a moment later Spektor joins him.

"To what do I owe the...pleasure...of your company, Miss Spektor?" The gentleman asks, exhaling a cloud of smoke directly into her face. She notices his hands for the first time.

"I don't really know...Why would my father tell me to come speak with you?" She asks the six-fingered gentleman.

"Hmmmm I would expect that has something to do with your age most likely. You're just about eighteen, am I right?"

"I'll be eighteen next month." She nods.

"And you've been feeling quite ill of late, haven't you. Like you're… _losing your mind_ , perhaps..."

"She's not mad." Riddle says.

"Quiet, boy. Don't speak about things you know nothing of." The six-fingered gentleman says, puffing his cigar, unsettlingly casual.

"You said to me that my 'time's just about up'..." She says, her voice as tense as her muscles.

"Clever girl. Well, I'm sorry to say, but it looks like next month I'll be attending your execution." The six-fingered gentleman frowns, but there is no sadness behind it. It's like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Spektor feels faint. Riddle unconsciously reaches for her hand, which he holds for just a second before pulling away.

"And why am I going to be... _executed_?" Spektor asks as calmly as possible.

"When half-breeds—no offense—reach the age of eighteen, they must be euthanized. You see, you are two selves in one, completely at odds with yourself. You are a soulless being with a soul. You can imagine the damage that does to one's mind and body. The consequences are unspeakable, and, unfortunately, unavoidable. Once you reach maturity, you will go mad, and you will become a danger to society."

"What if I got rid of my soul?"

"You can't just throw your soul away, girl! You're half-human. Your mind would still crumble. It won't do you any good to mess with that sort of thing. A fool's quest." The six-fingered gentleman says this with a laugh that puts Riddle on the edge of his seat. Spektor, on the other hand, sinks back into the plush fabric of the sofa, running over every possible solution in her mind.

"You're a devil, aren't you?" She asks. The six-fingered gentleman nods, flashing her a charming smile. "What do you have against half-breeds, then? Why are you all so fanatical about keeping humans and devils separate?" The six-fingered gentleman erupts in a hearty laugh.

"Are you serious, girl? Have I not just explained to you what happens to half-breeds if allowed to live? We are fundamentally incompatible with the human race. Always have been. Always will be. Any devil tainted by intimate human contact is sentenced to death, and that's that. It has been so for thousands of years. Since the beginning of Time itself."

"So my mother was..."

"Executed. Soon after your birth."

"Why let me live then? Why not kill me as soon as I was born?"

"We have our reasons." The six-fingered gentleman replaces his cigar in his ashtray and rises from his armchair. The record has come to an end. The room is silent save for the crackling of the fire. He disappears for a moment to flip the record, returns with a bottle of sherry, and pours three glasses. He hands one to Spektor, and then to Riddle, locking eyes with the young man for an uncomfortably long time before withdrawing to his armchair once more. Riddle goes to sip his drink, but the liquid inside remains stationary. He tries swirling it around the glass but it's solid. Spektor looks at him quizzically, sipping her sherry, which is behaving normally. He turns his glass upside down to illustrate what's wrong and the drink dumps onto his lap. Fucking trickster. He bites his tongue.

"If devils hate half-breeds, and humans for that matter, so much—why did you invite us into your home?" Spektor asks, sipping the drink greedily. The six-fingered gentleman narrows his eyes at her.

"Your father was my business partner. When he became close friends with Lenora...well, I was very upset. But it seemed harmless...I didn't pay it any mind—I certainly didn't think she'd be so _foolish_ about her affections, though..."

"Was Lenora..." Spektor begins.

"My daughter." The six-fingered gentleman finishes.

"That means...you're my..."

"Grandfather. Yes." The six-fingered gentleman says. There's nothing warm and fuzzy about this moment. "It's too bad, really. I was hoping to never meet you. Now that I know who you are, it'll be all the more unpleasant to watch you die."

"You can help her." Riddle orders.

"Help her? Haven't you been paying attention, boy? What do you expect me to do? I told you the consequences are unavoidable. Give her a few months and she'll be entirely unrecognizable."

"So you've never known of a...half-breed...to alter their fate?" Riddle asks.

"There was one. A very long time ago. But he was taken care of eventually." The six-fingered gentleman muses, lacing his fingers together and setting them on his lap. "He was also a wizard, interestingly enough. And a cheater. We don't take kindly to cheaters."

The tension's so thick in this small basement room you could slice it with a knife. As Spektor looks around, she has the uncanny sensation that the walls are wrong. The noodley saxophone solo is setting her teeth on edge. She reaches for Riddle's hand—it's as sweaty as hers. He shoots her a lets-get-the-hell-out-of-here look. The six-fingered gentleman has risen from his chair again, and is retrieving the bottle of sherry from the sideboard.

"Can I interest you in another...?" He offers. Riddle stands up, yanking Spektor up with him.

"We should get going. It's late..." Riddle says stiffly.

"No, please. _Stay. I insist_..." The six-fingered gentleman says, his voice as oily as his hair. He places a hand on Riddle's shoulder, causing the young man to flinch.

"It was very nice to meet you..." Spektor says, putting on an extremely fake smile.

"I wish I could say the same." The six-fingered gentleman says, smiling wide. "Forgive me for not showing you the way out. You'll figure it out, I'm sure." He says, and returns to his armchair and cigar. Riddle leads Spektor out into the hallway. Suddenly everything looks flipped, as though they are in a mirror.

"The walls are wrong." Spektor says. The red curtains billow in an absent breeze. She halts, pulling Riddle close. "The walls are wrong." She repeats, slightly horrified.

"No they're not. The door's over...here-" He says, pulling her towards what he remembers was a door. There's a red curtain there, which he pushes aside to reveal another hallway, much like the one they'd just walked down. "Shit." He mutters, a mild panic setting in.

"What about this way?" She pulls Riddle down the hall in the opposite direction. He stumbles over his feet as she drags him like a rag doll. The hallway is elongating. She pushes through the wall to their right and they both tumble into an empty room. Although they are able to stand, the floor appears to be slanted at a steep angle. Some sort of optical illusion. More red curtains. They hear that jazz record tinkling from somewhere in the distance. Something scuttles across the floor, causing Spektor to jump. She lands on Riddle's foot.

"Ow! What the bloody hell was that?" He takes out his wand to better illuminate the space. Whatever it was is gone now. He looks down at the young woman beside him. She's shaking.

"Please. Tom. Get me out of here." She says, trying to suppress the fear in here voice.

"We both still have the trace on us...but what do you think the chances are that anyone will care if we disapparate out of here..."

"I've never disapparated before..."

"Then hold on." He says, pulling her close. She wraps both arms around him and in a crack of light they're gone.


	15. I: Dark Night of the Soul

Chapter 15: Tender moments in the dark hours.

* * *

XV.  
Dark Night of the Soul  
[Wool's Orphanage | December 24, 1943]

* * *

It's well past midnight, and the inhabitants of Wool's Orphanage are tucked up in their beds and sleeping soundly. The only soul who should be awake, the night watchman, is dozing in the foyer, his radio leaking static, a crumpled newspaper on his lap open to an article on how to properly stock your bomb shelter. The sudden crack of Tom and Victoria apparating is faint enough not to jostle anyone out of dreamland.

"You can let go now." Tom says. Victoria doesn't budge. "Or loosen up a bit at least, I can barely breathe."

"Sorry." She says, relinquishing her grip and taking a small step back from him. "Where are we?"

"It's my room...it's the only safe place I could think of..." He says, a little embarrassed now that he thinks about it. It's a small room, more like a cell than a room, actually. Just a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe in the corner. The desk is littered with papers, a large book open, a quill resting in the crease, leaking minuscule ink droplets onto the pages. The small iron-frame bed is neatly made, thick grey blanket, crisp white sheets, one pillow. He moves to light the stubby candle on the bedside table, bathing the room in a dim warm glow. After taking off his coat and gloves, throwing them on the desk, he helps her out of her black wool coat. As he hangs it on the back of the chair, she unravels the thick grey scarf from around her neck and places it on top of the desk.

"Take those boots off. They're soaking." he says while rummaging in the wardrobe for something. She slips her boots and wet socks off and sets them near the radiator. When he turns around, extra blanket in his arms, he sees Victoria sitting on his bed and freezes for a moment, taking in the scene. Her dark hair cascading over her narrow shoulders, grey silk blouse tucked into an ankle-length black skirt, bare feet on the dirty wood floor. He sits down next to her and wraps her in the blanket. They don't say anything for a long time. The clock ticks on the bedside table. Rain drips on the windowsill.

"Thanks for coming with me." She says solemnly, looking down at the floor.

"You were right." He says. "It did get weird."

"Do you think..." She stops for a moment, as nervous about thinking this as she is saying it out loud, then continues. "Do you think that...if I was able to make one of those...horcruxes...Slughorn talked about...I'd be able to hide...buy some time..." An unsettling smile creeps across Tom's face, as if he was just waiting for her to bring up the topic.

"It's possible. I was thinking about that as well...It would solve your current problem at least...with your soul removed from your body, you would no longer be a...well..." He notices the scowl she's making in anticipation of the term, so he doesn't say it.

"But my soul will still be _alive_." She sighs, pondering the technicalities, the potential loopholes—if only she knew more.

"That might not matter. Very few things operate in absolutes, Victoria. This could be the very same route that wizard took—the one your grandfather mentioned. Not a foolproof plan, but a plan nonetheless..." Why is he smiling? Maybe she should cheer up. All hope isn't lost. And it seems as though Tom is willing to help her. There is something she can do. There's hope.

"A plan. Yes, I need a plan. And then I'll be safe." She says, pulling the blanket tighter around her, and up over her face so just her eyes are peeking out. "Right? You promise?"

"Promise?" He laughs, tugging on the blanket. She resists, drawing her limbs in to her core, needing to feel the compression, the comforting solidity of her own mass.

"This is no laughing matter." She says, although she's begun to laugh as well.

"Sure. Alright." he says, rolling his eyes. For a split second he looks away, the candle flickering and guttering, and she gives him a sneaky kiss on the cheek.

"What was that?" he asks sternly. Then, turning back to her, "How dare you! Don't you ever do that again." he orders, a playful smirk on his face.

"Or what?" She whispers. He laughs, pushing her down on the mattress, which squeaks a little as she falls back onto his pillow. He leans over her, and she grabs his cardigan, pulling him down so his face is mere centimeters from hers. She gives him another quick kiss on the cheek. Everybody loves a tease.

"Or I'll have to do this..." He resigns, his look conveying she is about to get what she deserves. Not that that's a bad thing...no, not at all...

His lips are upon hers, heavy and forceful. He brushes her hair away, clearing a path to her neck, collarbone, as she unbuttons his cardigan and pushes it off his shoulders. He pauses for a second, then yanks the garment the rest of the way off and tosses it on the floor. Victoria's small fingers now work with the buttons of his white shirt, which she notices is his Hogwarts uniform shirt, as he swiftly pulls her blouse off over her head. She's a little surprised to see he's almost as scrawny as she is. Not that it's a bad thing. Just another commonality to add to the list, which just keeps growing longer.

He reaches around her back to unclasp her bra, hands scanning greedily over her body, eventually discovering her two small breasts. When he kisses them she almost shrieks. What a strange sensation. His skin so deliciously warm against hers, feeling his hardon against her thigh, he plants soft kisses on her neck again, then her lips. Inhaling deeply, her lavender-rosemary perfume washes over him. When she slips out her skirt, he hastily rids himself of his trousers. The beating of his heart, the beads of sweat forming on his brow, he's boldly going where he's never gone before—where, quite honestly, he never thought he ever would go. This must be a dream. He's about to wake up any second, he thinks. This isn't supposed to be possible. No—stop that. Focus. What's that noise? Is that an air raid siren? Strangely, he's even more aroused...

She wraps her smooth pale legs around him, heavier breathing, then adolescent fumbling, kissing again, more tongue, more movement, rhythmically now...the bed creaking a little too loudly...her fingernails digging into his back, and then, together, they reach the climax. An incredible release—something neither of them could have anticipated, not just because of their collective inexperience in such acts, but also because of the resolution of such unbearable tension. They settle into each other, aligning too perfectly, although neither wants to be suspicious at such a time. No, now is a time for relief, for the safety in a gentle touch, for the silent joy a night not spent alone brings.

Victoria rests her head in the crook of Tom's neck, still breathing hard, and as he traces his long fingers through her hair, she feels peace spread through her veins. Tom exhales slowly, letting the air hiss through his teeth, lips curled in absolute contentment. He kisses her forehead, and she gazes up at him, her black eyes glittering, heart pounding out of her chest.

* * *

She's fast asleep now, her head resting on the right side of his pillow, engulfed in a cloud of soft dark hair. But Tom can't sleep. He's staring at the ceiling, trying to puzzle this all out. First of all, he's happy—happier than he's ever been in his life—which is a fairly new emotion for him. The only thing he can compare it to was the complete satisfaction he felt after he murdered his father and grandparents last summer. But that's different, of course.

And the next thing—and possibly the most confusing thing to him of all of it—he is not just _happy_ but quite possibly in _love_ with this strangely beautiful creature sleeping beside him. When he discovered he was conceived while his father was under the effects of a powerful love potion, he thought that explained it—why he was unable to feel any sort of affection for another person. But she's not exactly a _person_ now is she? Is that why she's the exception? God, how can someone be the exception to so many rules? He shifts carefully, so as not to wake her, and watches her chest gently rise, gently fall. Was it fate that brought her into his life? Did he even believe in fate? No, of course not. But she is making his job a lot easier, and more...enjoyable. He sighs, tugs the blankets up a bit farther to cover her shoulders. She snuggles deep into him. She's a force to be reckoned with. But she won't become a threat. He'll be careful. He knows what he's doing. When it's all said and done, she'll make a fine queen.

* * *

The six-fingered gentleman is dancing in his little room. It's a weird movement but she knows it's supposed to be dancing. And then there's that shadowy thing scuttling across the floor again. This time V.'s able to follow it, out into the hallway, which grows longer with each step, then twists unexpectedly, and again, until she's got the thing cornered in front of a large mirror. Gotcha. What is it? She bends down to get a closer look and—are those hands? Yes. A pair of severed hands in white gloves, standing on five fingers each like terrible spiders. They start to move again. They're jumping. They can jump? Oh god. They're reaching out. They're going for her throat.

Victoria awakes with a scream, sitting bolt upright, clutching the covers tightly to her chest, her heart racing, looking around anxiously, not knowing where the hell she is.

"What is it?" Tom wakes with a start, looking around, reaching for his wand. V. does a double-take. Oh. Right. She becomes so distracted by the fact that Tom isn't wearing any clothes that she completely disregards his question and just stares wide-eyed at him. "What's wrong?" He asks again, becoming a little annoyed now.

"I...uh..." She stammers.

"Shhhh." He puts a finger to her lips. Footsteps echo in the hallway, pause momentarily in front of Riddle's door. "Put this on and get in there." He says, tossing her his shirt and pointing at the wardrobe. Then a harsh knock at the door. He throws on his bathrobe and stuffs the rest of the clothes scattered about his floor into his bed, pulling the covers up over them. Victoria silently creeps into the wardrobe. The knocking persists.

"Riddle? Open up, boy." It's Mrs. Cole. He opens the door, yawning, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

"I thought I heard...a _woman_... _screaming_. Sounded like it was coming from in here..." She says sternly.

"That's strange. I didn't hear anything." He says, feigning confusion.

"A few other staff members heard it as well..." She says, poking her head into his room. "Step aside." He obliges. She surveys the room, looks under the bed, and starts towards the wardrobe. As Tom starts formulating how he's going to explain her away, V. hears her coming and quickly transforms, hiding herself quite well in one of the dark corners. When Mrs. Cole swings the door open she sees no sign of anything unorthodox. "Hmmm...Must've been coming from outside..." She muses, confused.

"Probably." He says stiffly.

"This area's getting worse and worse…with the war on…less police..." She mutters. "Breakfast's in an hour." She strides out the door, shutting it behind her. Tom immediately rushes to the wardrobe, opening it and finding it empty. Where'd she go? Then, a large black snake slithers out, coiling at his feet. The snake lifts its head and winks.

"An animagus. Very impressive." He says with a laugh.

"Thanks." She hisses. "It comes in handy."

"So that's why you know that snakes have different accents..." He remembers back to that day in September when she drew a picture of him having a chat with the basilisk.

"Clever boy." She hisses, then resumes her usual form, standing in front of him now in his white button-down, which hangs quite loosely on her. He smiles. She's still in her makeup from the night before, her eyeliner all smudged.

"That was close." He says, "So...what was the screaming about then? I'm not that awful to wake up next to, am I?" He's only half joking, but he's fully blushing.

"Are you kidding?" She says with a laugh, locating her clothes and getting dressed. "No. I had this dream...I was back in that apartment and..." Something suddenly dawns on her. Tom watches her eyes widen.

"What?"

"We have to go back." She says.

"What for?"

"There's this book I saw on the shelf in the living room. I totally forgot about it until now but...it'll help. I know it will. I need it."

"So we're going to just walk right in and take it?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Alright then." He says, pulling a pair of corduroy trousers on, along with a very chunky, very ugly, cream-colored turtleneck sweater. She laughs.

"Really?" She eyes the sweater skeptically.

"It's cold." He says flatly. At least at Hogwarts people can't pick on his second-hand clothes because everyone's wearing the same damn thing.

"Sorry it's just..." She says, then starts laughing again. "It's very hard to take you seriously while you're dressed like that..."

"Then don't take me seriously. See if I care." He says angrily.

"Oh don't be cross..." She says hastily.

"Too late."

"Cut it out, Tom. I'm sorry. I won't say anything about your outfit again." She says, batting her eyelashes.

"God damn it I don't want to be mad at you. This is the worst. I'm too _happy_." He scowls. She kisses him quickly before retrieving her coat and scarf. Her shoes and socks are warm and dry now, after spending a night by the radiator. She's in an unreasonably good mood, despite the weird events of last night, and perhaps because of the more positive aspects of the evening. If she didn't feel compelled to rush back to the six-fingered gentleman's apartment, she knows exactly what she'd rather be doing right now—and it wouldn't involve Tom wearing that ugly sweater, that's for sure.


	16. I: The Sacrifice

A/N: Hi all, sorry for the long gaps between posting, and the lack of response to reviews & such...I've got a lot on my plate right now and I'm doing my best to keep up with it all and keep going with the story. It's turning out to be much longer than I expected...Thanks for sticking with it and I hope you're all still enjoying it! As always, I appreciate your feedback and your continued interest!

* * *

CHAPTER XVI

The Sacrifice

[Hogwarts | November 1995]

* * *

Ron Weasley doesn't want to talk about what just happened in the Forbidden Forest. But Hermione Granger's seated on the couch in front of the fire, reading of course, when Ron creeps into the common room, trying not to draw any attention to himself. She whirls around, hair a tornado of amber curls, to fix her gaze on him.

"Where do you think you're going?" She inquires, shocked that he thought even for a minute that he could get away without telling her anything.

"Don't feel so good. Gonna go lie down..." Ron says weakly. Hermione leaps from the couch and rushes over to him.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just..." But before he can get out the rest of his poorly constructed excuse, she notices the conspicuous wound on his left hand, which he's trying to hide from view.

"Oh my...Ron...What happened?" She grabs his arm, bringing the injured hand into full view, a gaping slash across his palm.

"She took me to the Forbidden Forest." Ron admits, a twinge of shame coloring his demeanor. "To this cave..."

"She did this to you?" Hermione gasps. "You have to tell Dumbledore!"

"No. I can't." He says.

"And why not?"

"It's complicated." Ron sighs. "From what she explained...well she didn't explain much actually...but it seems as though this key..."

"Key?"

"In the box. There was a key. To open the thing she had to bring it below ground, into the cave, and give it an...offering..."

"Ron that sounds like dark magic!" Hermione's getting upset now.

"But it seems as though this key is really important..." Ron says. Is he defending her?

"Ron! Have you completely lost it? You remember what happened to Harry last year, don't you? This is bad. We have to tell Dumbledore."

"You go tell him then. I'm going to bed."

"Ron! Wait!"

"Hermione? What's all the yelling about?" Harry walks through the portrait hole.

"There's something seriously wrong with him." Hermione says in a huff, pointing at where Ron just disappeared up the stairs to the boy's dormitory. "Come on, we've got to do something."

* * *

" _Alohamora_." Hermione whispers, pointing her wand at the lock on the door to Professor Spektor's office.

"Remind me again why we're breaking into her _office_ if we're concerned she's done something awful to Ron..." Harry says skeptically.

" _Because_. Oh, don't be so thick Harry, that's Ron's job." Hermione says under her breath. "I don't understand why Dumbledore trusts her, but I've got a bad feeling about all of this. She's hiding something...something big..." Hermione pushes the door slowly, and the two students creep into the small, dark room. Harry lights the tip of his wand to illuminate the space. The desk is piled with books, an empty ink bottle is overturned—the source of the deep black stain on the desktop, a silver blood-stained dagger laying across one of the open tomes. The bed in the corner is neatly made, an empty bottle of firewhisky is on the floor next to it. Harry goes to check under the bed.

"So what are we looking for, exactly?" He coughs a bit. It's very dusty in there.

"Oooo what's that?" She squeaks, tiny feet skittering over to the bed, a corner of something sticking out from under the mattress catching her eye. She lifts up the mattress and unfolds it. It's two photographs, faded and torn in places. The first photograph is of a gnarled tree by a river snaking beneath a stone bridge. A shadowed figure stands beside the tree, waving its hands frantically, but the photograph is too out-of-focus to show who the person is. She hands it to Harry to examine while she checks out the next one. It's not as old, but still as beat-up. The person in this photograph is clearly visible this time. It's a young Professor Spektor, very young actually—about 17 or 18. Definitely pre-Azkaban. She's sitting in a withered garden, moonlight illuminating her pale skin, with a significantly creepy, all-tooth grin on her face. In her hand she's holding something.

"What's that do you think?" Hermione asks Harry, pointing to the item in Professor Spektor's hand. The figure in the picture laughs, her body whole body shaking.

"Umm..." Harry squints. "That's the ring isn't it? The one she wears?"

"You've got good eyes." A voice just behind Harry makes him tense up. The two students look up into the much-older version of the face of the woman in the picture. Where the hell did she come from? And without a sound?

"My...mother's..." Harry mumbles.

"Surely. Oh to be young again..." She says, taking the photograph from Harry. It is the same ring. It's on the middle finger of her right hand right now, glinting in the light still issuing from the tip of Harry's wand.

"Who...uh...gave you that, Professor?" Harry asks. He's not really sure why he's asking, but he has a feeling it matters somehow, since someone bothered to take a picture of her holding it. She slips off the ring, holding it in the palm of her hand, much like in the photograph, and offers it to Harry. As soon as he touches it he feels a jolt of pain shoot through his scar, and lets it fall back into her hands. He thinks he sees some movement in the black stone, but maybe that's just the poor lighting.

"What are you looking for?" She asks, replacing the ring on her finger and crossing her arms, looking directly at Hermione now.

"What did you do to Ron?" Hermione demands.

"He was helping me with that box." Professor Spektor shrugs casually. "It was more difficult to open than I expected. A sacrifice was necessary..."

"A _sacrifice_?" Harry's eyes grow wide. A brief flashback to the graveyard, to Cedric, lying cold on the ground, to Wormtail and the circle of death eaters...

"He'll be fine." She says. Harry and Hermione take a step back. "I wouldn't worry if I were you."

"You're working for...you-know-who...aren't you?" Harry says.

"I've never worked for anyone, boy." Professor Spektor says angrily. "Although I'm sure you'd like to think that, wouldn't you? He would too, I'm sure."

"So that's the key then?" Harry notices for the first time the slim brass key she's wearing around her neck. "What's so special about it, then?"

"It's the key to my freedom." She says, her smile cold, joyless.

"But you are free. Dumbledore..." Hermione starts.

"Dumbledore's got an agenda...which I suggest you two become savvy to because you factor in quite heavily. You are about to learn one of the most important lessons anyone could teach you—how to be aware you're being used."

"But I'm the chosen one!" Harry says. Professor Spektor abruptly erupts in laughter.

"Right you are, Harry Potter. Right you are."

"If you think you're going to convince me that Dumbledore's the bad one here and you-know-who is..."

"So attached to this notion of good vs. evil...Dumbledore's got you trained, alright. But let me tell you a secret. There is no evil, Harry." She says, raising a finger to her lips to prompt him to lower his voice. "You think you're the good guy, huh? But when there are two sides, how can either be the 'good' side? 'Good' to who? Who are you really serving, Harry? Yourself, or Albus Dumbledore?" Harry stares back at her. He has thought about this. Deep down he's felt a stirring within him, something unsettling, something dark and angry, struggling to surface.

"Albus Dumbledore is a good man." He says forcefully.

"Well then." Professor Spektor says. "Just know what happens when you make assumptions..." She snatches the other photograph from his hand. "I also have my mother's eyes." She says, pointing at the shadowy figure, who is still shaking her hands back and forth. "She's giving you a warning." Professor Spektor folds the picture in half and puts it in her pocket. "That you two should mind your own business." She then walks to the door, opens it, and extends her arm to usher them through. As soon as they're out she shuts the door firmly behind them without another word.

* * *

Severus Snape is standing in a dark room—the only light, a fire crackling in the hearth, it's bright heat battling against the damp cold of the old house. Wind whistles through the walls, something thuds in the distance, a rafter collapsing in the attic perhaps. A man is seated in a wing-back armchair, dressed in black, his grey skin corpse-like in the glow of the flames.

"So she knows now, does she?" The man says, his voice high and thin, like ice.

"Yes, my lord. I'm sorry, it just...slipped out...I had no idea she didn't know..."

"And what did I tell you about talking to her?"

"You said not to."

"Yet you defied me. Is it that you don't think I have good reason for giving you such an instruction?"

"No sir, it's just...I work with her..."

"Severus, I've put my trust in you. Was it foolish foolish of me to do so?"

"No—you can trust me. I'll be more careful. It's just...there's this thing about her..."

"You think I'm...unaware...of her _effect_?"

"No, of course not..."

"Then that's settled. You are treading on thin ice, Severus. Stray too close to her and it just...might...crack..."

"Right, my lord. Understood. I should get going then." Snape says, backing out of the room. The man in the chair sits very still, listening to Severus' retreating footsteps, waiting for the creak and slam of the door.

And then he's alone. The fire's got his full attention, the tongues lapping greedily at the grate, their own little prison in his own little room. He pulls a faded photograph out of his pocket and gazes upon the figure kneeling at the feet of a stone angel, face glowing in the moonlight, his old flame, whose warmth dwindled but never her brightness. Would he have preferred for her to remain locked up in Azkaban? Perhaps it would have been better—she was easier to forget about at least. And there was always the possibility that he could, eventually, once everything was in order, retrieve her... But there's no chance of that now, he thinks, because she already knows he betrayed her. This is going to be tricky. He weaves his fingers together, resting his chin upon them, thinking deeply of all the possibilities. He then settles on a tentative plan: either she joins him, or she dies.


	17. I: A Handful of Thorns

Chapter 17: With some very dark magic in a quiet London garden, nothing will ever be the same.

* * *

XVII.  
A Handful of Thorns  
[The Spektor Estate | December 27, 1943]

* * *

To say the Spektor Estate doesn't look a day over 500 years old would be an unfounded compliment. The once-stately stone manor house is tucked away on a dead-end street in what used to be the outskirts of London, but which, as the city has snaked its tendrils further into the countryside, has been incorporated into the city proper. Behind a tall stone wall topped with rusting ironwork, and through the thoroughly overgrown garden, passersby can just barely catch a glimpse of a light on in the attic room if they look hard enough.

It's known to the locals as "Devil's End," which is ironic considering what we know about one of the current occupants. But for whatever reason they started calling the place that, it can't be denied that its name sure suits it. The house is creepy, haunted, and has fallen in to such disrepair that it's a wonder the muggle authorities haven't come knocking to see if the place is up to code, structurally speaking. But nobody has knocked on that door in years. Until today.

"Anybody home?" A young man's voice, a little on-edge and faltering slightly, leaks through the thick front door. The door swings open right away.

"Who are you?" Victoria Spektor looks curiously at the boy. She is expecting somebody, but this is not the right person at all. The young man, bundled up in a thick red scarf and newsboy cap, is holding a tin with coins in it.

"Uhh...uh...I'm...caroling to raise money for the...for the...boy scouts..." He stammers, his arms shaking, jingling the coins in the tin. He's not much younger than she is.

"Just you?" Victoria asks, sticking her head out the front door to look around. She sees a group of young boys clustered around the gate, peering in with keen interest. "Ah. I see." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a coin, and drops it into the tin. The young man looks at her in shock. "Is that enough to get me the one about the figgy pudding?"

"Ummm...yes of course..." Then, without much of a choice, the boy scout launches into a rather compelling solo rendition of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" while Victoria Spektor leans casually against the doorjamb, surveying the whole scene with mild amusement. When he's finished, and the nervous sweat has stopped pouring from his temples, Victoria claps politely. "Thank you, m'am...uh...Happy Christmas!"

"When's that again?"

"When's what?"

"Christmas." Victoria says. The boy looks at her in utter confusion. "Wasn't that a few days ago?"

"Why uh...yeah...it was..." The boy fumbles. "Still the season though, ain't it?"

"Hm. Yes. I guess it is. Well then, Happy Christmas." She says, slowly retreating back into the shadows inside the house as the boy turns and walks down the steps and along the walkway to the gate where his friends are waiting with bated breath.

* * *

"Oi Victoria—your _boyfriend_ 's here!" Barnaby Spektor hollers up the stairway, then returns to the door, folding his arms across his chest, not even considering to invite Tom Riddle inside—who's got his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shivering slightly. Barnaby smirks at his shabby appearance. "So you live with a bunch of muggles, that right?"

"That's right." Tom says blankly.

"You're mad to date my sister. She's completely off her rocker, if you know what I mean."

"I'm not sure I do."

"I thought muggles said that to... Well, how to put it...she's batshit crazy, you follow?"

"That's not a very kind thing to say about a family member."

"She's no family of mine. Only a half-sister, really. Not even pureblood though. Not that it would matter, I guess, to someone like you." He's a beater on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, so it goes without saying that he's built like a tank. Flaming red hair as well, and freckles on his cherubic cheeks.

"Oh get in already, you'll freeze to death." Victoria finally appears, her voice exasperated, and beckons Tom inside, slamming the door shut behind him. She takes his hand, wincing at the temperature of his skin. "Come, I'll light a fire." Barnaby's blocking the passage into the living room.

"You're not gonna introduce me, huh?" Barnaby teases.

"Go fall off a cliff, Barnaby." Victoria spits.

"So rude. Told you she was deranged." Says Barnaby as an aside to Tom.

"Choke on your own shit, you..." Victoria stops herself, takes a deep breath, breaks into the fakest smile Tom's ever seen, and says, pleasantly now, "Brother dearest, this is Tom Riddle. I believe you know him from school. Tom, this is my brother Barnaby, beater on the Gryffindor team, and future Ministry slimebag."

"A pleasure..." Tom mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching in either a smile or a grimace. "So you want to work for the Minister?"

"I got word just the other day that my application is being 'seriously considered.'" Barnaby boasts, a grotesque grin stretched across his pimply face, chest inflated to unreasonable proportions, shoulders thrown back, head held high.

"Good luck with that." Tom says. Barnaby doesn't pick up on the sarcasm.

"Thanks. Listen, if I were you mate, I'd get the hell out of here..." Barnaby says, his sentiment not threatening, but one of camaraderie. Victoria rolls her eyes, pushing past her brother and into the living room, where she lights a fire in the cavernous fireplace. Tom follows close behind. Barnaby shrugs and trundles away somewhere.

"I take it you don't like him very much." Tom says, kneeling by the fire to warm his hands.

"He's the worst." She sits down on the hearth next to him. "I'm glad you could come."

"So this is what it's like to grow up in a wizarding family..." Tom says, rising to his feet, starting to examine the contents of the room—the ancient portraits of long-dead Spektors lining the walls, the box of floo powder on the mantle, the smell of herbs in the fire, the curio cabinet full of strange instruments...

"Guess so." She says. "Obsessed with being pure blood, these lot are. Very proud of it. Well, pure except for yours truly."

"Another exception. I'm not surprised." Tom says, looking up at a portrait of an old man fast asleep.

"My father." Victoria says, coming up silently behind Tom. "Septimus."

"He's the one?" Tom says. She nods solemnly.

"It'll be the easiest. Nobody will suspect...I mean, he's gonna die soon anyway… Might as well make it...useful..." She says, feeling slightly nauseous as the words come out of her mouth. From the foyer they hear Barnaby shuffling about. "Going somewhere?" Victoria calls.

"Quidditch game." He says, "Why, you wanna come?" He snorts.

"No. Thanks." She says. The door slams behind him. Through the window, she watches him trudge up the walkway, broom over his shoulder.

"Good timing." Tom says.

"Yeah I guess. Let's just get this over with." Victoria sighs, rising from the couch and, with wand in hand, leads the way up the creaky staircase to her parents' bedroom. The candle's gone out near the bed, and the window's open, a soft breeze billowing through the curtains. Her father lies still, his eyes closed, hands at his sides. She doesn't even have to check his pulse. She knows he's already gone. Sadness floods her first, but with it, an undercurrent of frustration. No, she shouldn't be mad. That's awful. But her birthday is in just a few days...there's not much time... She turns back to Tom, raising her hands as if to say, what on earth am I supposed to do now? Tom shrugs, brow furrowed, crossing his arms. They stand there in silence for a moment or two before Victoria's little sister Lucinda—second year, Hufflepuff—pokes her head around the doorjamb. The young redhead looks from Victoria, to Tom, to her father, then back to Victoria.

"What'd you do?" She asks. Did Victoria look guilty? Maybe.

"He's gone, Lucinda." She says, voice wavering, sniffling a bit. It's all genuine, actually. Lucinda should recognize that. But she doesn't. The young girl races to her father, tears streaming down her face.

"What'd you do to him?!" She cries. Victoria throws up her hands.

"I just came up to check on him!" She says. It's the truth.

"What's _he_ doing here?" Lucinda points rudely at Tom, who is lurking awkwardly in the corner. She recognizes him as the head boy from school.

"He just stopped by to say hello. Merlin's beard, why are you acting so paranoid?" Victoria wipes a tear from her own cheek.

"Mum says you're the reason dad was sick." Lucinda sniffles, waving that accusatory finger at Victoria now.

"Mum says a lot of things that aren't true." Victoria says.

"No! Mum's right about _you_! She says you're _evil_." Lucinda shouts, taunting her, in the way young kids do.

"You have no idea what you're talking about." Victoria says, her anger growing, overriding her sadness now. They've all got to pass judgement. They've all got to remind her she's a monster. There's only one person in her life that is actually being supportive... An idea dawns on her. One you might call an evil idea. Victoria draws her wand. If she's going to really take control over her life, she might as well start now.

"Ooooo I'm really scared." Lucinda teases. "What are you gonna do, kill me?" Victoria takes a deep shuddering breath.

" _Avada Kedavra_."

* * *

It's one of those moments where you escape from your own head for a bit, where you're able to see the proceedings as though you are an onlooker, perhaps an angel, perched on a cloud up in heaven somewhere, observing the terrible things, thinking to yourself how glad you are to be so far removed. Of course she's no angel, but the opposite, although, after taking one look at her sister's lifeless body, she turns and runs from the room in such a remorseful manner you'd think there's no way she could be one of the infernal. Tom chases her through the house, finding it difficult to keep up, what with all the twists and turns, and finds her sitting at the feet of a tall stone angel in the garden. Both Victoria and the angel are weeping.

"Well...you did it..." he's doubled over, gasping for breath, hands on his knees.

"It shouldn't have been her. She's just a girl. She's stupid but she doesn't know any better." Victoria says tearily.

"Shhhh." He kneels down next to her. "It's ok. You had to do it. And now it's done." He's trying so hard to be comforting, but he honestly doesn't give a damn about her sister. Probably better off dead, from what he barely knew of her.

"It's done." Victoria says, no longer crying now, wiping her cheeks, her voice hollow, empty. "So what now?" Tom reaches into his pocket and takes out a piece of parchment scribbled with notes. Mist develops softly in the dark places, like sleep.

* * *

Victoria understood why Tom could be so calm about all of this. He told her about what he'd done to his father and his grandparents last summer. Instead of being a red-flag, like most reasonable people would've taken it, the information only strengthened her trust with the young man. Murder is murder. Does the reason behind it make it more or less immoral? But given the knowledge that she might only have a few days left to live, and here's this boy who's willing to help her kill someone, perform a difficult piece of dark magic, all to save her life—all for the greater good, right? It's help she never thought she'd get. It's a chance at someday living as her true self, in pleasant obscurity, feeling healthy and, hopefully, happy.

She honestly doesn't think twice about why he's so keen on making a horcrux for himself. To her, it's just another way he's being supportive, as if to say, 'look don't feel bad I've done it too.' And as they work, reading off his scribbled notes, in the moonlit garden of angels, she feels a sense of peace wash away all the awful things. There's hope.

After the spell has been performed, and the two horcruxes lay at the feet of the angel, glistening in the moonlight, the two young people heave heavy sighs of exhaustion. Neither of them have ever experienced something so painful, so draining—of course, most people never will.

"You're going to miss curfew." Victoria says, glancing up at the sky, sun sinking behind the mansard roof. He picks up the gold ring, the one with the black stone in the center, and instead of sliding it back on his finger, he holds it out to her.

"I'll see you at school." He says simply. She takes the ring and holds it in her palm, not sure what to do, what to say. She's stunned.

"Ummm..." She looks up at him. "Let's hope." And next he does something even more odd. From his pocket he takes out a muggle camera—one he nicked from a kid at the orphanage and has been putting various enchantments on out of sheer boredom.

"Smile." He says. She's so confused that she can't help but laugh. It's an empty laugh, but one all the same. Her horcrux, the necklace with the eye pendant, is still lying on the cold stone. She doesn't want it. She'd throw it away if she knew that wasn't an incredibly stupid idea. So she picks it up and holds it out to him, pendant swinging like a pendulum, back and forth. The eyes of the angel follow the motion, and although neither of them notice, the two do have the vague sensation that they're being watched. Tom takes it, closes his fist around it, gripping it tightly.

"See you at school." Victoria says with a wink.

* * *

As Tom walks back to the orphanage, the necklace still clenched in his fist, he starts to doubt his reasoning behind giving her the ring. What if she gets the wrong idea? But isn't that the idea he wants her to have in the first place? He wants her on his side, and he's pretty sure he's just cemented that. But will she be loyal? Or is she just using him? No, she wouldn't do that. He's sure of it. She wouldn't use him. That's impossible. Suddenly he feels a pain in his hand. He opens his fist to look at the necklace. On his palm are small pricks, as though he had been holding a handful of thorns.


	18. II: The Special Assignment

A/N: Quick update this time! Also just a reminder, I revised Chapter 17, so if you haven't, I'd suggest you skim through it (the changes were significant enough, I think, to warrant a revisit). So... Also, it seems as though we've come to a shift, which has spurred my decision to split this story in two parts. Here we have the beginning of Part II:

* * *

—PART II—

CHAPTER XVIII

The Special Assignment

[12 Grimmauld Place, December 1995]

* * *

Harry Potter wakes in a cold sweat, his head about to burst with the pain issuing from his lightning bolt scar. He's just had a terrible dream involving a large black snake that was... He springs out of bed. It was attacking Mr. Weasley. Not even pausing to change out of his pajamas, Harry stumbles down from Gryffindor tower and makes a beeline to the headmaster's office.

* * *

Snow's falling soundlessly on the empty street outside Number 12 Grimmauld Place. The Order of the Phoenix has just received news that Arthur Weasley has stabilized and will be joining them at headquarters tomorrow for Christmas dinner, which has done wonders to boost the spirits of the house. However, one person certainly isn't feeling the love. V. Spektor is in the living room plunking out a melody on the ancient and completely out-of-tune piano. Black's been talking about her nonstop since she arrived from Hogwarts about how she's a traitor, can't be trusted, and whatever else he's got himself convinced of. Maybe he's right. Maybe she can't be trusted by these people. It's not like she hasn't heard that before. (And it's not like she signed up for this either...)

"Bit dismal in here, no?" Albus Dumbledore glides into the room, flicking a small instrument that looks like a muggle lighter, a series of flames alighting on the candelabra. "You heard the news about Arthur?"

"Yes." Spektor says absently. She's been hitting the same key on the piano, like a skipping record.

"How are you doing?" Albus asks, sitting down next to her on the piano bench. Spektor stretches a disgustingly fake smile, holds it for a few seconds, then lets her face fall back into its usual expressionless state. "Sirius Black told me you are an animagus. Is that true?"

"Well well...he's sure made the rounds." She says coldly. "Yes, it's true. And so's he...which I guess you know..."

"Your animal form is a snake?"

"You are drawing connections where there are none." She stares him down. "I can assure you, Albus, that I was not in the Department of Mysteries the night Arthur was attacked. What reason would I possibly have for attacking Arthur Weasley?" Dumbledore doesn't ask how she knows Arthur was in the Department of Mysteries, but he makes note of that for sure.

"Young Harry Potter and his friend Hermione Granger seem to think you have it out for the Weasleys..." Albus says. "Have you spoken with Severus recently?"

"Yes. But...?" Spektor freezes. Dumbledore sent Snape to talk to her that evening. So maybe...was it all a lie—what he said about the betrayal and all that? Albus Dumbledore smiles.

"I think it's time for us to discuss another aspect of your special assignment." He says, pushing her hands from the keys and closing the wooden casing over them. "Given what you've divulged to me during our last meeting, it seems reasonable to think that...You-Know-Who...would be eager to see you again."

"Most likely." Spektor says tensely through clenched teeth.

"I would like you to pay him a visit. Severus has agreed to escort you." Dumbledore's peering down at the poor woman, her eyes shadowed, wrinkles spidering from their corners, as though at a pawn on a wizard's chessboard.

"And what, may I ask, do you intend for me to do on this...visit...?" Spektor asks testily.

"Be eager to see him as well." Dumbledore says, bemused.

"Why do you trust me?" She inquires.

"I don't need to trust you." Dumbledore says cryptically, wearing what feels like a fiercely friendly expression. He pats her hands, which are resting on the piano, and rises from the bench, exiting the room without another word. She heaves a sigh and lowers her forehead to rest on the piano with a painful thunk—this is all getting so complicated. She _really_ did _not_ sign up for this.

* * *

Molly's whipped up an incredible feast, and the whole of the Order is now gathered around the long kitchen table. The chatter of cutlery on porcelain, and the banter back and forth between comrades distracts from the tenseness hanging over them. Arthur's seated at the head of the table, bandaged but smiling, taking small bites of Molly's delectable roast goose. Spektor's sitting between Severus Snape and Nymphadora Tonks, and fills her plate several times over the course of the meal.

"Quite the appetite for someone so thin." Tonks comments. "I don't know how you manage." She means it as a complement, of course.

"I'm always hungry." Spektor says flatly. "Always." Tonks laughs nervously and redirects her attention to her own plate.

"So Dumbledore spoke with you earlier?" Severus practically whispers. Spektor nods. "We'll have to decide on a time. I believe he wants this to be carried out as soon as possible."

"Great. Can't wait." She says grimly.

"What're you two plotting then, hmm?" A familiar voice interjects. It's Sirius Black.

"Go jump off a cliff, Black." Spektor retorts instinctively.

"Oh I'm sure you'd love that." He says back.

"You know what I'd love?" She says, maybe a bit too forcefully. The whole room falls silent. "If you would just leave me the hell alone." Her eyes scan the room. The statement's really meant for all of them—each and every one.

"Shhhh Sirius please." Remus Lupin places a hand on Sirius' shoulder, in an effort to restrain his hot-headed friend.

"Yeah? That's what you want?" Sirius retorts angrily. "Maybe you should leave everyone else alone then! Like poor Arthur? And his son?"

"Black, really. It's Christmas dinner. Don't go spoiling it by being such a righteous asshole." Spektor sighs, putting her head in her hands. She's got a terrible headache, of which Sirius is only half the cause. He's teetering on the brink of rage, visibly fuming. "Honestly though. What did I ever do to you?" Sirius' thinking about it now.

"Um..." He's got nothing.

"I'll tell you what I did to you." Spektor says heavily, leaning across the table, lowering her voice. She gestures for Sirius to lean in to hear her, and he does. "How exactly did your cell get unlocked the night you escaped? Do you recall?" Sirius looks up at her, meets her eyes for a second before looking away. He thought his cell was left unlocked by a careless guard. But...wait a second...did she...

"What? You unlocked my cell? Why?" He asks, incredulous.

"For the greater good." She winks. Then, "You're innocent. Obviously." Sirius leans back, processing all this. Remus is looking at him curiously. Spektor's smirking, sipping her wine slowly, not taking her eyes off of Sirius. He's squirming in his seat, incredibly uncomfortable.

"Uhh...thanks." He says gruffly.

"Of course." She says.

* * *

The meal's winding down, everyone's filled to bursting, and a sleepiness is spreading over them all. As is customary, Spektor's indulged in one too many glasses of red wine, and is in a pleasant, yet volatile, headspace. And when she runs into Sirius Black in the hallway before ascending the stairs to the attic, she decides she's going to get that apology from him she feels she deserves.

"So where is it?" She asks.

"Where's what?" Sirius squints.

"My apology." She says, raising her eyebrows.

"Hah! Apology?" Sirius laughs. Remus is coming down the hall now, and after noticing the two talking, he quickens his pace. "I don't owe you anything."

"After all the shit you were talking these past few days? So is Severus right then? That you and your dear friend James were just good-for-nothing bullies..." She glares at him. If she was sober she certainly wouldn't have said something so charged, but what the hell—let the games begin.

"How _dare_ you talk about James!" Sirius flushes. "You didn't even know him."

"And you don't know me." She says forcefully. "If you apologize, then I will."

"I'm not apologizing to a stinking _Death Eater_."

"Merlin's beard—how many times do I need to go over this with you— _I'm not a Death Eater._ I was thrown into Azkaban before Death Eaters even _existed_. And not to mention, before you were even _born._ " She says exasperatedly. "What's this really all about, Black?"

"You're working for You-Know-Who. Everyone knows it. It's obvious."

"I don't work for anyone!"

"Not Dumbledore then?"

"So you think you're gonna expose me as what, a double-agent or some shit?"

"Yeah. Maybe." Sirius is losing steam. An idea dawns on Spektor—the real basic root of the whole stupid thing.

"You're just jealous that you're stuck in this house and I'm not." She says. It's true. Painfully so.

"I'm not jealous of you. I pity you." Black says, unconvincingly.

"Oh yeah?" She backs towards the front door, opens it and steps outside. "Not jealous, huh?" Sirius glares at her. "C'mon out. It's such a nice night." She taunts.

"Sirius—don't." Remus warns. But Sirius doesn't listen. He lunges at the frail witch on the stoop, snowflakes clinging now to her hair, settling on her shoulders. She steps out of the way and he lands face-first in the snow. She looks down at the foolish man at her feet, shaking her head.

"You never should've spoken ill of me." She says dangerously. "You will pay for that. Eventually." She steps over him, back into the entryway, and up the stairs. Remus drags Sirius back inside and shuts the door quickly. Passing Severus, she whispers "So we're going on a trip then? How's tomorrow for you?"

* * *

Near her bed—just a thick pile of blankets on the floor in the attic—is a small parcel. It's wrapped in red tissue paper and tied up with a gold string. The piece of parchment tucked under the string reads _Happy Christmas, Victoria_ in graceful, elegant penmanship—Albus Dumbledore's. Spektor carefully tears away the tissue paper to reveal a compact mirror about the size of her palm. She stares at it for a good long while, gobsmacked, all the air leaks from her lungs. _He knows_.

Ancient witches and wizards used to say: "Stare too long at yourself in the mirror and you'll become a monster." And they had good reason for saying this too—and old wive's tale sure, but the power of mirrors isn't to be taken lightly. Although many modern-day witches and wizards have become far less superstitious, some still refuse to hang mirrors in their homes, or cover them with black cloth when not in use. That's because, whether these witches and wizards realize it or not, mirrors are the means by which the devils keep tabs on them—observe them, influence them, etc. So naturally, for example, those humans exhibiting an unhealthy amount of vanity will be repaid by a disturbingly warped reflection of themselves, courtesy of the devils at the Embassy. All part of a day's work.

For the infernal, mirrors work in a slightly different way. Instead of showing a picture-accurate reflection of themselves (or whatever else appears in the glass), mirrors reflect the essence of the self (or object). They're quite useful for separating truth from illusion and detecting deception, which devils are always in the business of dealing with. One only needs to catch a glimpse of you in a mirror to know you, to see through to the very core of your soul. When she was young, Victoria Spektor was haunted by mirrors, showing her truly awful things. But perhaps now...hmmm...let's see here... She slips off the ring and sets it on her bed beside her. And so, now, Victoria Spektor looks down at this small mirror and sees herself, her pale waxy skin, her dull black eyes, her long dark hair, and that's it. No distortions this time—no creepy alterations of her appearance. She blinks rapidly. Could it be? Perhaps she's not a monster after all. Another small step towards freedom?

There's a knock at the door. It's Ron Weasley and he's got something in his hands.

"I uh...I wanted to...give you this..." He stammers nervously, arms outstretched. Spektor takes the small parcel, loosely wrapped in a yellowing copy of _The Daily Prophet_ , a look of utter confusion on her face.

"What is this?"

"Open it." Ron says. Spektor rips the paper apart to reveal a small badge. When she doesn't know what it is, Ron explains, "It's the Weasley family crest. I remember you said your stepmum was a Weasley...and that you never really felt...accepted...which is terrible and not like the Weasleys at all so...I thought this might...uh...make you happier...or something..." He's rocking back and forth from foot to foot, scratching the back of his neck.

"I..." Spektor starts, but can't continue because she bursts into tears. Ron's nervous, worried that he's made a mistake.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you!"

"No—no! I'm not upset! This is the nicest thing..." She says between sobs. "I don't deserve this."

"Sure you do. Why not?" Ron says. "You're one of us...sort of."

"No, you don't understand..." She starts, but Ron cuts her off.

"I don't think I need to..." He says simply. "Uh...Happy Christmas, Professor." And he exits, leaving the door open behind them. She rises to shut it, leans her back against the weathered oak, attempts to pull herself back together, and looks down at the badge cupped in her palm. Something's trying to right itself here. And how more obvious could the message be? There may be no good, and no evil, but there is kindness—and she'd be a fool to ignore it when it is so clearly bestowed upon her.

In her heart there's a lightness she hasn't felt in decades. So light it's making her dizzy. She feels around for the ring on the bed and slides it back on her finger, like an iron shackle clicking shut once more, and she takes a deep breath. Small steps...easy now...


	19. II: The Reunion

A/N: Just realized I didn't get around to explaining the connection between V and the Weasleys, but I will! In the next chapter. You'll learn a little more about her family, the scandal, and other things. Thanks for all the reviews, A regrettable decision, SlytherclawQueen, fowlgirl19, and Lednovasne! And also thanks to all of you who've favorited and/or followed! Glad to know you're all reading along, and I love hearing your thoughts.

* * *

CHAPTER XIX

The Reunion

[London | December 1995]

* * *

The streets of London are bathed in the soft grey light of the cold December moon, aided by the harsh glare of fluorescent street lamps, buzzing and hissing from their perches above, illuminating the path of two cloaked figures. One of the figures is clutching a bag of steaming roasted chestnuts. She reaches into the crumpled paper sack and pops one in her mouth before offering her companion a snack. He declines. She shrugs.

"Honestly though, we just ate dinner." Severus Snape scolds.

"Chestnuts roasting on an open fire..." Victoria Spektor half-sings gloomily. "Jack frost nipping at your nose..." She grabs at his large nose and he swats her hand away as if it were a wasp, regarding the old witch with befuddlement.

"What's gotten into...wait...you're drunk aren't you?"

"Always." She winks.

"Then we're going back. You have a job to do, and you're..." He halts abruptly, salt crystals crunching between his thick-soled boots and the pavement beneath. She keeps walking, shoveling chestnuts into her mouth. "I said _we're going back now._ " He calls after her.

"Can't do that." She says, her mouth full. "Too late now." Snape sighs heavily, kicks a lump of snow that's more solid than anticipated, and winces in pain. He limps to catch up with her.

"You're not taking this seriously." He whispers sternly. The reaction he gets from her is even more disconcerting than her state of intoxication—the delicate old woman starts laughing madly. Severus grows visibly concerned.

"I'm so nervous." She says between bursts of laughter. "I think I'm going to be sick..." The look of concern on Severus' face quickly transitions to horror. Her suspicions are correct, and Snape's standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Great. It's...fine... Calm down. Just...here...take a seat..." He leads her over to a low wall and brushes away some snow to clear a patch for her to sit down. She sinks onto the wall, heaves a sigh, and looks up at Severus, who's dripping with her dinner.

"Sorry..." She says. "Really though—I don't understand why you keep electing to spend time with me. All I do is get drunk and make you uncomfortable." Severus whisks his wand over his cloak and cleans the mess up quick.

"I happen to believe you are a good person. Deep down...very deep..." He says. "And you remind me a little of my mum, Eileen Prince."

"Eileen? I always liked her." Spektor says, smiling at the memory of getting her ass kicked by Eileen Prince at gobstones on several occasions. Snape smiles.

"Did you ever really love him?" Snape asks, sitting down next to her.

"Yes. Very much so." Spektor says.

"And still?"

"I don't know. It's been a long time...We're both very different people, I'm sure..." She says, twisting the ring around her finger. "We'll find out soon, I guess."

* * *

"But how did they _know_?" A cloaked man rises from his seat at the end of a long table, thudding both hands forcefully on the surface, looming over another cloaked man with long blond hair.

"I d-don't know m-m-my Lord. No one else was th-here." The blond man stutters.

"Did he die?" The high-pitched, nasal voice of a woman with black curly hair, followed by a sinister cackle. Lucius shakes his head. "Pity."

"Quiet, Bellatrix." Lord Voldemort snaps. Her laugh grates so harshly. "Are you sure we have an accurate count? Everyone must be monitored." He turns back to Lucius.

"That's a question for Severus..." Lucius says. "He's supposed to be here by now." Deflecting, as usual. And right on time, Severus Snape walks into the room. Nobody notices the snake gliding silently beside him over the polished floorboards, coiling out of sight under the table.

"Sorry I'm late, my Lord." He says humbly, approaching the table and taking the seat to Lord Voldemort's right. He casts a quick glance around the room.

"We were just discussing your friend Arthur Weasley." Voldemort says. Bellatrix does that awful laugh again.

"Ahem...speaking of friends..." Severus says. Voldemort narrows his eyes at Snape.

"What?" He snaps.

"Someone's here to see you." Snape says, looking at a point just over his shoulder.

"Hello Tom." Victoria's now standing, on her own two feet, mere inches behind his chair. He flinches at the sound of her voice, a shard of glass shot from the shadows. The expression on Voldemort's face, if you could call it that, is one that none of the others in the room have ever seen him display before. Nobody's even quite sure what it is... He's a mess of confusion.

"Victoria." He doesn't turn to look at her. He doesn't know what to say to her. "I trust you've been well."

"Never better." She says. Neither wants to be the one to move first. She's staring at the back of his head. He's staring straight ahead. Bellatrix and Lucius sit tensely, silent, holding their breath. After a few excruciating moments, Victoria steps forward, and, after all these years, sets eyes on what's become of Tom Riddle. She gasps. It's the face she'd seen in her reflection. The face she'd for years taken as a bastardization of her own. But no. It's him. It's always been him. He turns sharply and their eyes meet—glowing red slits, gazing into her deep black pools. Out of the corner of her eye, Victoria can see Bellatrix reaching for her wand, her brow furrowed in jealous frustration.

"You look awful." Victoria smirks. Tense silence, then, unexpectedly, Voldemort laughs—the same cold, high-pitched laugh she remembers so well.

"So do you." He laughs, cracking a smile.

"Thanks." She winks.

"Who's this then?" Bellatrix interjects, voice squeaking anxiously. Voldemort completely ignores her, and instead pushes his chair back and rises from the table, not once taking his eyes from Victoria's. He holds out his hand, and when she takes it, he spots the ring on her finger. _She kept it._ His hands are as cold as hers now, his skin as sallow. They are more alike than they've ever been, but he can sense there's something different about her. Hmmm. Without a word, to Victoria or the others, he begins to walk away, and Victoria accompanies him out of the room.

In their wake, the three Death Eaters seated at the table look at each other quizzically.

"Well? Who _is_ she?" Bellatrix whines. Nobody says a word.

* * *

The Dark Lord closes the door tightly behind him, then turns to face the woman now before him, standing in the center of the dark room, her body blending with the shadows, a ghostly presence which, if he didn't know better, he'd doubt was really there at all. He is completely unprepared for this moment. A deep breath, a step forward. She's still as the statues that lived in her family's garden. Another step. He can't get inside her head. She was always impossible to read. And one last step before they're face-to-face. Instinctively she reaches out a delicate hand and, frowning, grazes the greyish skin stretched over his once-handsome face. He flinches.

"So...'Lord Voldemort' stuck then." She says.

"I remember you had your doubts..." His voice is breathy, strained.

"Guess I can't be right about everything. Nobody's perfect."

"You're pretty close." He smiles creepily.

"Heh. Really... Didn't think so when you turned me in, did you..." She sneers.

"I felt threatened." He says, frowning. "I was young, foolish—please, forgive me."

"Are you apologizing?" She asks, her eyebrows raised. He scowls. Difficult to drag an apology out of this one—even more so than Black...

"Why are you here?" He demands.

"Just to check in. See how you're doing. You know..." She shrugs.

"Oh I'm doing well...Got a body again, so that's always nice..." He says sarcastically.

"Not as good as the last one, but whatever works, I guess."

"Not as good as the last one, huh?" He sneers, "I suppose you're a qualified judge...seen a fair few in your day, haven't you?" His words burn her skin like acid.

"I told you none of that was true! I don't know why you want to believe..." She says, hurt, and unable to conceal it. _That's right, convince me that none of it was true. That you were, and remain faithful. To me._

"You are the only person I will ever love." He says, a hint of anger in his voice.

"I know." She says, eyes cast down, trying to remain calm and level-headed. She feels the love there, it's never left, but there's also all this hate now. Just looking at him she feels the hate—for what he's become, for what he stands for, for what he did to her... But she'll put that aside now, because she had a job to do. She takes a deep breath. This is gonna hurt.

"I feel the same way." She says.

"You do?" He says, surprised.

"Let's not dwell on everything that happened. I love you, Tom. I always have, and I always will." As she smiles, she starts to cry—something she certainly doesn't want to be doing right now. But it is sincere. She's fooling herself, and she knows it. But if things were different—if he was not the monster before her but the seventeen-year-old boy she first fell in love with—there's nothing in the world she'd want more than to be reunited with him. She'll just have to live in that little fantasy world for a while, until everything falls into place. He wipes the tears from her cheeks with a cold, bony hand, and traces her cheekbone gently with his thumb. _He's going to kiss me. Oh shit he's going to kiss me..._ And sure enough, he leans in and kisses her forcefully, his lips dry, his breath stale. It's the most unpleasant kiss she's ever received, but to keep up the act, she reciprocates—soft and tender.

"Where are you staying?" He asks, running his hand down her back.

"At Hogwarts." She says, thinking it best not to mention anything about the Order of the Phoenix.

"That's too far to travel tonight. You'll stay here." He says. When he notices the skepticism cross Victoria's face, he adds, "I insist."

Under the hem of his robes she spots a silver chain strung around his neck, and hanging upon it—a green eye. Gotcha.

* * *

The next morning she wakes up before the sun and stumbles down the long sweeping staircase wearing his dressing gown, and pokes around the labyrinthine house for a kitchen. This house is huge, probably the biggest she's ever been in, and ridiculously fancy. Once she finds the kitchen she's almost afraid to touch anything—all the dishes, cups, and various utensils look so delicate she's bound to break one. She finds a hunk of day-old bread and some cheese, and she's just about to make some tea when someone else enters the kitchen. She freezes, completely embarrassed. The realization hits her that she actually has no idea whose house this is.

"Professor?" A sleepy young voice drifts from the edge of the room.

"Who's that?"

"What?" The voice is confused. "I...It's Draco...Malfoy..."

"Oh, hi Draco." She says awkwardly.

"I don't mean to be rude but...uh...what are you doing in my house?" He's still very cautious around her, a behavior that has been reinforced by his father, who has advised him that she is someone he wants to remain on good terms with.

"Your house?" She thinks out loud. "It's very nice. I like your selection of cheese—looks like you've got cheese from every country around the world in here..."

"Yes but...it's five o'clock in the morning and you're in my kitchen...and you're..." Draco's eyes widen. He recognizes the dressing gown, of course.

"I don't know what to tell you." She shrugs, "But I just put the kettle on— want some?"

"Umm...sure..." Draco says cautiously. He can't stop thinking about how strange this is. She pours him a cup of tea and they sit at the table, Draco watching while she devours half a loaf of bread and nearly a pound of cheese.

"Did you really kill fifty people?" Draco asks.

" _Fifty_? Merlin's beard is that what people think?" Professor Spektor spits.

"Is that a 'no' then?"

"Fifty..." She muses. "Why on earth would I want to do that?"

"Father thinks all the mudbloods should be exterminated. There's a lot more than just fifty of them."

"You've got a point." She says, chewing the crust. "Just muggle-borns? What about half-bloods?"

"Dunno." Draco shrugs. She's not looking at Draco anymore, but at another person entering the kitchen.

"Ah, we were just talking about you." She says to the new arrival, cheeky as ever.

"I thought you might have already left." Says a high, cold voice that causes Draco to tense up.

"No, I just got hungry." She says brightly, "They have a lot of cheese, if you're interested. This cheddar has been aged for thirty years or something..."

"Of course you've already taken inventory of the kitchen." He says, rolling his eyes. There's a weird lightness in his voice Draco can't help but notice. The Dark Lord takes the seat next to Professor Spektor and she offers him the cup of tea she had poured for herself, which he takes gladly. "So you've met Draco already."

"He's one of my students at Hogwarts." She says, looking back at Draco now, who's nervously surveying the pair. "He used to think my class is...what was it...useless? But he's come around." She winks.

"What are you teaching? They're mad to not give you potions, but I believe Severus is still the Potions Master..."

"Defense Against the Dark Arts." She says with a laugh, nudging him in the ribs.

"Of _course_." He says, laughing. She sticks out her tongue. _What the hell's going on here?_ Draco thinks.

"May I be excused? I have to pack..." Draco mumbles.

"You're excused." The Dark Lord grants. "He's a good boy." Draco hears him say as he leaves the room. He takes the stairs two at a time, strides quickly to his room, and closes the door behind him. Not only did he have Snape to deal with at Hogwarts, but now _she_ 's involved? And pretty heavily involved, it seems. He shudders to think—what kind of a person is she, to be that close to the Dark Lord? And he thought Bellatrix was crazy... He shivers in the morning light leaking through his window.


	20. II: Accusations & Avoidance

A/N: Apologies in advance for delays in posting...I'm in the process of moving from one end of the country to the other, so my writing time is being seriously curtailed. I'm going to try to post once a week, but it might go a bit longer between updates. Anyways, happy equinox! ;)

* * *

CHAPTER XX

Accusations & Avoidance

[Hogwarts | January 1944]

* * *

The Slytherin table at dinner is buzzing with hot gossip. Instead of sitting in her usual spot amidst the cluster of seventh-year girls, she walks to the end of the table and slips into the empty space beside Riddle, who's currently engaged in conversation with Avery. He abruptly breaks eye contact with Avery to shift his attention to the silent young woman now at his side. His breath gets all caught up in his lungs for a second.

"You're alive." He says, positively beaming. He's not going to tell her he spent the last few days attempting to mentally prepare himself for her potential absence, including the torturous train ride back to Hogwarts after failing to locate her... No, he's going to just enjoy this because god damn it _it worked_. He saved her life...Wait, what? He did what now? She looks at him with those eerie black eyes, her face expressionless.

"Seems like it." And there's the smile he's been waiting for. It creeps across her crimson lips, a small curl at the corner of her mouth. "Thanks to you." He's not sure how to respond, and instead becomes lost down the deep wells of her eyes until Avery drags him back up to the surface.

"Oi! About the-" Avery begins.

"Yes, tonight will be good, I think." Riddle answers, snapping back to the previous conversation as abruptly as he left it. And without breaking his attention, he casually places his hand over Spektor's as she reaches for the last roll, giving it a small squeeze, before sneakily taking it for himself. Spektor nudges him hard in the ribs.

"Oh, did you want this?" He drawls, smirking. Ever the gentleman, he then tears the roll in half and hands her a piece. Spektor narrows her eyes at him while she wolfs the thing down. When she reaches for a piece of chicken, she catches Lestrange's glare.

"Evening, Lestrange." She says. Lestrange nods, an odd twinkle in his eye. Perhaps it was just the reflection of a candle flame. And then Spektor feels a hand on her shoulder. She swivels in her seat to see Julia Pembroke standing over her.

"Hey. Wanted to tell you somethin'." Pembroke's agitated, muttering under her breath.

"What's wrong?"

"Have you read the papers yet?"

"The what?"

"The Prophet? You read it today?"

"No. I haven't..." Spektor says distractedly, as she feels Riddle's hand come to rest on her knee. "What are you on about?"

"Here. Just read it." Pembroke pushes a rumpled copy of _The Daily Prophet_ into her hand before ambling back to where she was sitting with Fairchild, who's uncharacteristically distraught. Spektor unfurls the newspaper and immediately catches what Pembroke was on about. A decent portion of the front page has been devoted to a report on the murder of a young witch, which she begins to read:

 _Authorities are still trying to identify the killer responsible for the death of Lucinda Spektor, daughter of Septimus Spektor and Victoria Spektor (née Weasley), who was murdered in her family home in East London just days after Christmas. Mrs. Spektor could not be reached for comment, as she is receiving treatment in St. Mungo's. Her son, Barnaby, told one of our reporters that he suspects his sister Victoria was somehow involved, but did not elaborate. Miss Victoria Spektor has not responded to our owls..._

"Everyone's been following it." Avery interjects, correctly assuming which article has caught her attention. "Pretty juicy stuff. Hey, did you see you're a suspect? Hah!" Spektor doesn't laugh; she doesn't even finish reading the article.

"You think I'm a killer, Avery?" Her deadpan sparks an uneasiness in the pit of his stomach.

"Umm..." Avery mumbles. "Well, now that you mention it..."

"You know how much I loved my sister. Honestly, if I was going to off anyone in my family it would've been that prick over there." Her gesture indicates the hunched back of her brother Barnaby, surrounded by a gaggle of fawning Gryffindor Quidditch fans.

"Should I alert the _Prophet_?" He jokes.

"It'll be the last thing you do."

"Spoken like a true murder." Avery laughs. V. does not. Avery, now feeling thoroughly uncomfortable, directs his attention back to Riddle. "So it's just you, me, and Lestrange..."

"Huh?" Lestrange perks up.

"About tonight." Avery says to him. Lestrange nods jerkily. Riddle hisses, signaling them to quiet down, before reaching for V.'s full goblet of pumpkin juice.

"Eat your own food!" Spektor demands.

"No!" Lestrange leaps from his seat. Riddle freezes, goblet raised, just about to take a sip. Riddle and Spektor are both staring at Lestrange now, as he sits back down and starts blabbering. "Don't drink that! Here, just give it to me." Riddle smirks, and moves the goblet closer to his mouth. "Stop! Riddle, don't!"

"What's going to happen, Lestrange?" Riddle asks, a mischievous glint in his eye. Lestrange flushes.

"Please don't drink that." Lestrange pleads. "Just put it down."

"So I'm not the one you have a crush on?" Riddle says in mock confusion, putting on an exaggerated frown. "I'm hurt, Lestrange."

"Shut it!" Lestrange barks. "You..."

"What?" Riddle challenges. Lestrange backs down immediately, remembering well what happened less than a month ago at that ball. "I saw you slip that love potion in her goblet."

"Like you don't have the same...intentions..." Lestrange snarls.

"I'm right here, you know." Spektor's interjection falls on deaf ears. She punched the man in the face. Twice. What doesn't he understand?

"I don't need a love potion, mate." Riddle's arrogance on full display here. To rub it in, he wraps his arm around V's shoulders, large hands gripping her arm, knuckles white with otherwise unnoticeable tension.

"You know, he's not some knight in shining armor, V." Lestrange says, standing up, then thudding both hands angrily on the table, causing it to shake. Spektor looks up at him, her eyebrows raised. "He's...he's..."

"Please, Lestrange—tell me what I am. The suspense is killing me." Riddle drawls sarcastically.

"Nevermind." Lestrange thunders off, his robes billowing out behind him as sweeps through the Great Hall.

"A _love potion_." Spektor snorts, pushing the drugged goblet as far away from her as possible. "Not gonna to lie, it would've been hysterical if you actually drank that."

"Oh God—never..." Riddle dismisses the thought immediately. Just then, Spektor has a nasty idea. She takes out her wand and hovers the drugged goblet over to Penelope Fairchild's place setting. When she turns back to her food, she causally lifts the goblet to her lips and takes a long drink. Spektor smiles to herself, having just solved two annoying problems with one simple swish-and-flick.

"Nasty stuff, love potions..." Riddle says quietly, more to himself than to Spektor, as he watches Fairchild sip the tainted juice.

"She wants a husband." Spektor shrugs, replacing her wand in her pocket. Then she feels his hand on her knee again. "Not _here_ Tom." She whispers sternly.

"Let's go to the library." He suggests abruptly, giving her knee a sharp squeeze before standing up.

"I haven't even finished eating!" She says.

"You are never finished eating." He quips. As they make their way out of the Great Hall, a fair number of students, likely those who have been following the reports on the investigation in the _Daily Prophet,_ watch the pair closely, some pointing, others whispering.

* * *

Tom leads her all the way through the library to the back, slipping into the Restricted Section completely unnoticed. In a secluded corner, surrounded on three sides by towering bookcases, Victoria drops her bag on the table. She's about to light the candle when Tom grabs her roughly and turns her around to face him, his lips slightly parted, his eyes ravenous.

"So...what do you intend to study then?" Victoria inquires, knowing full well they didn't come here to do anything remotely academic. When he doesn't respond, she lifts her slender fingers and begins loosening his tie. Tom watches her hands as they slide over the knot, arching an eyebrow. He pushes her black school robes off her shoulders, and they puddle on the floor. Deftly, he slides his hand up under her shirt, tracing his long fingers up her spine, as she unbuttons his collar, kissing his neck softly. He sighs, a little too loudly, and Victoria quickly places a finger to his lips. In response, he swoops in and kisses her, holding her so tight he lifts her slight frame effortlessly off the floor, her arms draping gracefully around his shoulders. She giggles and kisses him back. Momentarily losing balance, he staggers back, colliding with the bookshelf and dislodging a few dusty old volumes. Her feet back on the ground, she grips the ends of his tie and pulls him back upright, drawing him into a tight embrace, running her fingers through his meticulously neat hair. He closes his eyes, breathes in deeply. He wants her so bad it's almost paralyzing. She is doing everything in her power to exercise some self control, but she could have him right here, right now. Just..breathe. Easy now...

"What was that?" She whispers.

"Hmmm?" Tom murmurs disinterestedly.

"I heard something...coming from over...over there I think..." Quicker now, she whispers, her breath tickling his ear. Tom listens and hears it too. A shuffling of feet, the slide of a book off a shelf...someone else is back here.

"We should go." He says, crestfallen, picking up Victoria's robe from the ground helping her put it back on. "Who else would be here is what I'd like to know..." He whines agitatedly as they creep around the bookcase and make their way back to the main section of the library.

"Thought it had to be you." Says a gruff voice from somewhere behind them.

"Barnaby?" V is shocked. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you at the feast?"

"Saw you leave in a hurry. Figured I should follow you... Y'know, keep better tabs on you, seeing as last time I didn't and...well...you know what happened..." He steps out of the shadows. "Don't want any more poor kids getting murdered..." Barnaby may be only a few months younger than V, but sometimes he acts like he's only half her age.

"You know full well I wasn't home either when she died." V lies forcefully. "We left shortly after you did, to go on a walk."

"Nobody saw you." Barnaby says, crossing his arms over his muscly chest. "And _you_." Now looking at Tom, "I thought you were just some weird nerd..."

"Are you accusing me of something?" Tom scoffs.

"You two are up to something." Barnaby says, pointing from one to the other, voice wavering slightly, the vibes emanating from his half-sister setting his nerves on edge.

"What've you got there?" V asks, pointing at the large book under Barnaby's arm.

"Thought I should read up on your kind...get a better idea of what I'm dealing with..." When he shifts his arm she sees it's the only book in the library on devils—one she's read several times herself.

"Read?" Her sarcasm is razor-sharp. Barnaby never reads. Not even for classes. She's heard people say that he enlists various Gryffindor girls to read his school books to him while lounging around the common room polishing his broomstick.

"Yeah. I read. Sometimes." Barnaby huffs.

"You better cut it out. People might think you're a weird nerd." Tom says.

"Hey man, back off." Barnaby steps toward him, prompting Tom to give ground.

"Careful, Spektor. Seems like you've forgotten you're talking to the Head Boy." Tom warns.

"Don't call me that name. I wish my mother never married him...The bastard." Barnaby spits. "I'd rather be a Weasley any day."

"Hm. A Weasley? Yes, I suppose that suits you more." Tom sneers.

"Hey what's that supposed to mean?" Barnaby narrows his eyes at the pale, scrawny bookworm.

"Just an observation." says Tom. He's looking at these two siblings now, and they honestly couldn't be more different. Barnaby with his shock of red hair and broad build, and V's body merely a wisp, buried under a mound of dark locks. It's easy to see the Weasley in Barnaby, and obvious as to why he'd no longer want to be associated with his father: too much trouble for the future Minister of Magic.

"So you're building a case against me?" V asks, shifting her weight.

"The truth will come out." Barnaby says, intending to sound confident, but instead coming across more nervous than anything. And with that he takes his leave, scurrying through the stacks and out of sight.

"I can't believe he's your brother." Tom says, still fixed on the spot where Barnaby turned the corner to exit the library.

" _Half-_ brother." V says, "His mum's a piece of work though, just like him. She didn't know what she was getting into, marrying my father. I honestly don't know how they ended up together. For such a feisty young woman to end up with such a dull, serious, old man..." She muses, "I wonder what my mum was like...If he loved her...what would've been different if they could've been together..." Tom remains silent, listening to V chatter on about her parents, all three of them, and can't help feel a twinge of jealousy. Just to have a family to hate would be better than having no family at all, he thinks for a moment. But no, that's stupid.

"You should've killed him instead." Did he just say that out loud? Oops. V halts her monologue and looks at Tom with wide eyes. She said the same thing earlier to Avery, but when he says it, it sounds so...cruel. But isn't that what murder _is_? Of course. But...

"We all get what we deserve...in the end..." She says softly. Tom puts an arm around her and they walk in silence back to the Slytherin common room.

* * *

Tiny globes of light refract through the icicles descending from the steeply pitched roof of the owlery. Through the windows they glisten like talons, encircling the room in something of a death grip. Perches extending nearly fifty feet above her hold the weight of hundreds of quivering, ruffling birds of prey, all eyeing the young woman below with their customary vigilance. It's Victoria Spektor, of course, and she's rooting through a fresh layer of droppings for any discarded letters that might bear her name. A raw wind rushes in through the glassless windows, pushing the soiled straw up around her feet, tugging her scarf tight around her neck. Turning her attention back to the ground, she doesn't find a single piece of mail addressed to her. But hmmm...what's this? Under her boot is a dirty envelope that's oddly thick. She reaches down with her dirty, and by now almost frostbitten hands, and sees a very familiar name scrawled across the front in deep crimson ink. _Mr. Thomas M. Riddle_. A natural snoop, V can't resist a peek...

 _Dear Mr. Riddle,_

 _It has come to our attention that you have become acquainted with a young woman by the name of Victoria Spektor. We request that you cease this relationship immediately if you value your safety and personal freedom. You may wonder who we are, why we are writing to you, and what we could possibly do to enforce the claims we've made above. Do not trouble yourself with such details. Let it suffice to say that this is a warning, and we strongly advise that you heed it. If you have any further questions, please refrain from asking them. The answers you'd receive would be of no use to you anyway._

 _Sincerely,_

 _D. F. Leviathan_

V stares at the letter for a solid ten minutes before shoving it back in its envelope. Below the signature is a stamp—a reversed pentacle inscribed within a snake, which is biting its own tail. This must be the symbol of the Embassy... Without a second thought, she grips the envelope tightly in her hands and rips it clean down the middle. Fuck you Mr. Leviathan. She rips it again. And again. Hundreds of tiny pieces litter the ground, mingling with the owl shit. Footsteps on the stone stairway outside, and then a giggling couple enters the owlery.

"V!" It's Penelope Fairchild. "Guess what!?" V turns around to see Fairchild dragging Lestrange by the arm. Oh. Right.

"Looking good, as always." Lestrange says to V, who, covered in straw, scowls in return.

"We're going steady!" Fairchild squeaks, threading her fingers through Lestrange's hand.

"Oh wow." V says flatly. "That's great." Lestrange's got a cocky grin plastered across his face.

"Jealous?" Lestrange teases.

"Heh. You wish." V kicks the pile of scraps.

"Are you going on the next Hogsmeade trip?" Fairchild asks excitedly. V shrugs. "You and Tom should come—we could make it a double date!"

"Huh. Alright...well, I'll ask him, I guess..." It's like they're existing in different, parallel universes at this moment.

"Yeah! It'll be great!" Fairchild says cheerily.

"Don't forget about the letter, sweetie." Lestrange says, nudging her.

"Oh right!" Fairchild reaches into her pocket for an envelope.

"Right...well...I've got to get going..." V says, inching towards the door. They take no notice of her. All the better. She skirts down the winding staircase, skillfully avoiding the ice patches, and into the warmth and relative comfort of the castle.


	21. II: Kiss With A Fist

A/N: Thanks for the review, Shadowdreamslayer! And for the recent favorites/follows!

TW: abuse, violence

* * *

CHAPTER XXI

Kiss With A Fist

[Hogwarts | February 1944]

* * *

The castle's being pounded by storm after storm, burying the school under so much snow the groundskeeper's had to create tunnels in some spots to enable students to make their way to more remote locations like the greenhouses, and Hogsmeade.

"It's like we're at the North Pole!" Julie Pembroke exclaims in wonder, as she walks through one of these tunnels with Spektor and Fairchild. "Amazing."

"Reminds me of when I was little, when my dad would make these elaborate snow forts after a blizzard, for me and my sister to play in." Fairchild reaches up and touches the ceiling of the tunnel, causing a little flurry of snow to fall down on top of them.

"Cute." Spektor says absently.

"Hey, so this whole thing with you and Lestrange..." Pembroke is the first to broach the subject. "I thought you weren't into him. After the ball you said he really turned you off..."

"I don't know what happened, honestly." Fairchild muses dreamily. "I guess I just needed some time...but how could I _not_ see it, you know? That we're soul mates..."

"Soul mates?" Pembroke laughs. "V, can we have a rational human's thoughts on the subject, _please_?"

"Who are we to judge? If they're happy..." Spektor shrugs.

"Oh come _on_. It's so _weird_. You have to admit...hey, you're not bent out of joint about it are you? I mean, you and Riddle seem to be getting pretty close..." Pembroke realizes she hasn't talked to Spektor about any of this yet, and is operating purely on assumptions at this point.

"Julie, you should know better than to think something like that." Spektor reaches inside her robes for her flask, full now with a different potion altogether—something she's been working on practically non-stop since getting back to Hogwarts. It tastes disgusting, and she winces as the slimy, slightly gelatinous liquid slides down her throat.

"I'm glad you're not upset, V." Fairchild interjects. "I wouldn't want my new relationship to jeopardize our friendship or anything..."

"No of course not. I'm very happy for you, Penelope." Spektor coughs.

"That stuff's gonna kill you one of these days." Pembroke says, gesturing toward the flask.

"Not if it works..." Spektor winks, slipping it back inside her robes. They're almost to the greenhouses now.

"So...you and Riddle hmmmm?" Pembroke throws a playful punch at Spektor's arm.

"What?"

"You two have become quite the item, I've heard."

"Oh yeah? Who says?" It's not like it's not true, because it certainly is, but Spektor's a very private person—doesn't like her information being spread around.

"Well..." Pembroke pauses at the door to Greenhouse Number 3. "A few people...you know how it is... But is it true? That you're actually _dating_ him? I mean, he hates _everyone_."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Spektor deflects.

"Oh come _on_ V, you're _no fun_." Pembroke whines. "Why so secretive?"  
"Alright." Spektor rolls her eyes. Pulling on a pair of thick canvas gloves, she whispers the details to Pembroke. Fairchild, conveniently, is already out of earshot, humming to herself as she scoops fertilizer into a pot. "I dunno...it just sort of...happened..." Pembroke nods along. "I certainly didn't expect it..." Pembroke's listening intently as she readies her station at the worktable.

"I knew it." Pembroke whispers victoriously. "When I saw you two at the ball, I just knew it."

"Yeah, it's been pretty... _intense_...since then, you could say..." Spektor says, now shoveling dragon dung into a pot.

"Oh my god you slept with him already." Pembroke effortlessly jumps to the conclusion, incredulous, casting Spektor a very disapproving stare. Spektor shushes her.

" _Really_ , Julie? It's not like half the girls in our year haven't already lost their virginity..." Spektor doesn't really understand what the big deal is.

"Mistake number one." Pembroke says, taking the dung shovel from Spektor and now helping herself to the bag of fertilizer. "Rushing physical intimacy. I thought you were smarter than that, V."

"This has nothing to do with intelligence." Spektor snaps. "And I can have sex with whoever I want to, thank you very much." She definitely said that too loud. Edward O'Connor looks up from his workstation, venemous tentacula writhing in his firm grip, a curious look on his face.

"You sure can." Pembroke says. "But that doesn't mean it's a wise decision..."

"Well, too late now." Spektor sneers. "Got any more advice?"

"Hey, no reason to get cross. I'm just..."

"Can you two quiet down? I'm trying to concentrate." Minerva McGonagal quips.

"Sorry." Pembroke apologizes. "C'mon V, don't be mad at me..." She whispers. V's wrestling with her tentacula now.

"It's been a strange few months." Spektor mutters.

"You've been really distant..."

"I've been really busy..."

"You look better, at least." Pembroke says, smiling. "For a while there I thought you were gonna die or something..."

"Yeah, me too." Spektor says. McGonagal shoots them another look of annoyance. They shut up and get to work.

* * *

"Wait up!" Edward O'Connor's running across the courtyard, a pair of gloves clutched in his hand. "Hey, V!" She halts, swiveling on the spot to face the strapping young Gryffindor. He jogs up to her, panting slightly, cheeks rosy from the chilled February air. He holds out the gloves, and she takes them gladly.

"Ah. Thought they fell out of my pocket." She says, slipping them onto her hands. They're still a little warm from his grip. "Thanks." She turns to continue on inside.

"Wait." He says. She does. "You're good with potions, right?"

"The best." She says, ever so modestly, eyes surveying the boy before her with mild curiosity.

"Good. I'm having a bit of trouble...I was wondering if you could...I dunno..." O'Connor stammers. Huh. Here's a person who's never talked to her before, a person she didn't even think knew her _name_ , and now, all of a sudden, he's asking her to tutor him in potions? And...is he blushing? Strange.

"What's going on?" A harsh voice makes O'Connor. Tom Riddle's striding towards them across the courtyard.

"No idea." Spektor shrugs. Riddle casts her a withering look.

"I've gotta go. See you in Care of Magical Creatures." O'Connor bids her farewell, with a nervous glance at Riddle.

"What was that all about?" Riddle asks.

"He _was_ being weird, wasn't he? You saw it..." Spektor says, watching O'Connor slip through the archway and out of sight.

"I did." Riddle says, taking her hand in an iron grip. "You know, I can't help but notice...but you seem to have acquired a fair number of... _admirers_..."

"Admirers?" Spektor snorts.

"You know what I'm talking about." Riddle says, dead serious.

Now that he mentions it, she has noticed. The lingering glances. The blatant stares. She has been operating under the assumption all the newfound attention is because of the coverage of the murder investigation in the _Daily Prophet_ that all the students seem to be lapping up. But wait a moment now...Riddle thinks that these people are _attracted_ to her? In all her years of existence, she's never once considered herself to be an attractive person by any conventional standards. Perhaps this is because she's never been able to see herself clearly—damn mirrors. Still, it's ridiculous.

"A little paranoid, are we?" She says.

"Quiet down, would you?" He hisses. They're walking past a cluster of professors, with Albus Dumbledore in the mix, watching the two of them out of the corner of his eye. Hmm. Yes. Well, they're both on the same page regarding _him,_ at least.

Fairchild once talked about how a woman suddenly becomes more desirable once she's no longer available. That's a reasonable explanation, sure. But ever since that night in her garden, since the separation of her human soul from her infernal body, there's been some slight...changes... Not only does she appear much healthier than before, even gaining a little weight to round off her sharp edges, but people are regarding her with much more interest. You could even say they're draw to her—sometimes approaching her without even knowing why. Riddle's clearly not coping well with this unexpected side effect...

* * *

He's pacing—something he rarely indulges himself in because it makes him seem scattered, distraught even—but he can't help it. Nobody's around to witness it anyway—the common room is empty, the fire flickering feebly in the grate, heavy snores drifting from the boys dormitory. He tries to sleep, but his dreams cause just as much unrest as his waking life. If they're even dreams...they seem so _real_. He's awake now, though, that he's sure of. And he's got this vision fixed in his mind of Victoria and Edward O'Connor...

They're in the greenhouses and the rest of the class has left. Victoria's packing up her books, slipping them into her bag, turning to leave, sunlight leaking through the chinks in the snow-covered glass above, glinting off her hair, the metal buckles on her bag...and then, a hand on her shoulder. She looks up at O'Connor, who's grinning, holding her gloves in one hand, then using the other to push the bag off her shoulder. It falls to the floor with a thud. He's pushing her up onto one of the worktables, knocking pots and trowels out of the way. She tosses her glossy hair over her shoulder, eyes glittering, teeth flashing, pulling him closer, wrapping her stockinged legs around his middle...

No. Tom presses his palms into his eyes, trying to get the awful scene to stop replaying itself. It can't be true. It would be easier to deal with if he could just ask her about it, but god only knows where she is right now... And right on cue, a slim figure creeps through the entrance.

"Tom. What are you doing up?" She whispers, catching sight of the young man.

"Couldn't sleep." He growls. "You?"

"Ok. Look." She sighs, striding towards him, "I'm not fooling around behind your back, so just get that out of your head already."

"Now where would you get an idea like that?" Tom muses, crossing his arms.

"You've _got_ to be _kidding me_." She's exasperated. "You're mental if you think I'm going to put up with this any longer."

"You sound guilty."

"Do you _want_ me to be guilty?" She asks, arching an eyebrow. "Let's go get O'Connor then and I'll do him right here. You can even watch, if you like—" And without a moment's delay, Tom's hand strikes her face. Hard. She winces, steps back, face screwed up in utter disbelief. "Bloody hell that hurt..." she says, massaging the place where, she's sure, a nasty bruise is already blossoming.

"How dare you talk to me like that." Tom spits. "You're _my_ girl, Victoria. You better start acting like it." The shock starts to fade from her face, and is slowly replaced by a grin—bearing her teeth like a viper ready to strike. Normally she would've given him a taste of his own medicine, but this time she's taking a different tactic. She re-approaches the glowering young man, slipping a hand around his waist.

"And how do you want _your girl_ to act?" Her tone is low, sultry. Tom's face is still chiseled into a deep scowl. As she traces her hand up his spine, she feels his muscles twitch, as though he's about to hit her again. This should be a deterrent, but to her, it's incentive. "I can be bad...if you want..." She purrs. "I can be...cruel...if you want..." She brazenly bites his lower lip, lightly of course. His left eye twitches.

"You little bitch..." He sneers, "Someone ought to teach you some respect..."

"Mmmm...right..." She taunts, "And you're the one for the job?"

"You're damn right I am." He pushes her backwards into the sofa, behind her. She stumbles, lands awkwardly on the tufted velvet, and he descends upon her, pinning her down. She can smell his sweat, his breath, his heat almost stifling her, and suddenly bursts out laughing. "This is no laughing matter." He scowls. She obviously thinks otherwise.

"Then why are you smiling...?" She whispers. It's true, he is—out of nerves, maybe, as he's trying to wrap his mind around how the reason he hit her is also one of the main reasons he's falling in love with her. Her black eyes are almost hypnotizing, and a bad feeling writhes in the pit of his stomach.

"You think infidelity is funny?" He growls.

"I think it's funny that you'd even entertain the notion that I'd be unfaithful." She's no longer laughing now, wriggling in discomfort against his weight and the awkward position he's got her in.

"Prove it then." He challenges.

"And how do you expect me to do that?" She scoffs. "We're supposed to _trust_ each other. Otherwise what's the point of even being together?" Ah, that's it right there. He's got other motives, for sure, and for some reason, she's not sensing them.

"You still have that ring I gave you?" He asks.

"Of course. It's in my trunk, for safekeeping..."

"I want you to wear it." He commands.

"But...what if I lose it?" That is why she's not wearing it in the first place. She doesn't really give a shit about her own horcrux—he can do whatever he wants with that—but she was entrusted with his, and she's going to make sure it's protected.

"You won't lose it." He assures her. He softens the harshness of his voice with a smile.

"You're so sure of yourself." She flashes a smile back. "So does this mean what I think it means?" He doesn't answer, but instead pulls her into a kiss. Does she really think that he doesn't care if she talks to, or even looks at other men? No, that won't do. He's made up his mind. She is his now. There are rules that must be followed, and she _will_ follow them.

"You're lucky I like you." He whispers, shifting his weight, pushing aside a lock of hair that's fallen across her face.

"So are you." She winks. Her kisses are anesthetic, her voice a sinister lullaby. The closer he gets to her, the greater the pull of her gravity. Who's really in control here? At this point, it's anyone's guess.


	22. II: The Scentless Apprentice

A/N: Sorry for the unreasonable delay in updating! I've moved and settled, which means I'll be updating this more regularly now. Thank you so much for the reviews, follows, and favorites! Your continued interest really means a lot to me!

* * *

CHAPTER XXII

The Scentless Apprentice

[Hogwarts | February 1995]

* * *

"You will comply! I will have order!" A harsh, high-pitched voice squeaks from inside the caverns of the Transfiguration classroom. Professor Spektor's passing by, on her way up to the owlery, and pauses outside the door to listen in for a bit.

"I will not stoop to these unreasonable standards." Professor McGonagal counters, followed by a thud that Spektor imagines is one of those watered-down Ministry-approved doorstops Umbridge is pushing. "My students are here to learn, and they have every right to be educated."

"These new guidelines are not to hinder education, Professor. Merely to ensure that the course material is suitable for these impressionable young minds." Dolores Umbridge quips.

"And tell me, how is learning how to transfigure a canary into a teakettle unsuitable for fourth-year students?"

"It's because the Ministry doesn't want these kids to be able to do any actual magic. Isn't that right, Dolores?" Professor Spektor slips in, allowing her arrogance to get the better of her.

"This is a private meeting. Please leave." Umbridge orders.

"Not very private when you leave the door wide open..." Spektor mutters, jerking her thumb over her shoulder at the entryway.

"Enough! I will not tolerate insubordination." Umbridge draws her wand.

"Heh. Insubordination?" Spektor laughs.

"She's got a point Dolores. It _does_ seem as though you are trying to impede practical magical education at Hogwarts." McGonagal says, "I can't _imagine_ why the Ministry would be behind such an initiative..."

"The Ministry is behind no such initiative." Umbridge mutters agitatedly. "And I wouldn't suggest such things if you don't want to be put on trial for treason..."

" _Treason._ Good God what _year_ is it?" Spektor arches an eyebrow.

"Oh, look at that. Time's up. I'm very busy, and if you'd excuse me, I have more pressing matters to see to." Umbridge quips, and bustles out of the classroom, clipboard in hand.

"I see you're the latest target of the Pink Menace." Spektor says to McGonagal, who's resumed her seat behind her desk. "Nice to see you're taking a stand..."

"Don't you have something you need to do?" McGonagal snaps.

"Not really. Uh... Was just about to send a letter..." Spektor shrugs.

"Well if you'd kindly leave me to my work..." McGonagal says. There's a bitterness in her voice that has not faded with time, a bite Spektor remembers well.

"This is called an olive branch. I'm extending it, see..."

"I don't want your friendship."

"This isn't because of that stupid rumor about O'Connor is it? Because that is literally ancient history."

"O'Connor? You mean Edward?" She hasn't thought about Edward in a long, long time.

"You know it never happened. That it was just Tom..."

" _Just Tom_..." She drops the words like heavy stones upon the floor.

"Ok look I know you didn't like him—"

"That's an understatement."

"Right. True." Spektor sighs. "And also ancient history, by the way..."

"Not from what I heard."

"Well..." Spektor's getting the feeling she's fighting a losing battle here. Perhaps backed herself into a corner... "Gonna go mail this...letter...then."

"To be clear, I don't want your friendship because I'm not stupid enough to befriend a devil." McGonagal calls after her, her slim figure framed in the doorway.

"What. Did. You. Just. Call. Me?" Spektor blanches, swivels around, letter crumpled in her now-clenched fist.

"Your brother, Barnaby, was doing some research and left his materials in the Gryffindor common room. I was tidying up... Got a glance at his notes...by accident, of course..." Spektor's wand is drawn, and she's advancing on the prim old woman.

"It was you." She growls. McGonagal jumps from her chair, drawing her own wand in self-defense, and putting as much distance as she can manage between herself and her now-infuriated former classmate.

"I never told anyone!" The professor's voice is quavering. "Well, not until recently..."

"First I thought it was Barnaby. Then Severus tells me it was Tom. Now you're saying..." Spektor's ranting, wand trained on McGonagal's heart, which is beating a reckless tattoo against her ribcage.

"I don't know what you're talking about, but I can tell you this. The only person I've told is Dumbledore, right before the holidays. I'd been meaning to tell him sooner but I couldn't bring myself to..."

"And why's that?" Her outer calmness is only betrayed by an undertone of seething rage.

"Because, well, quite frankly...I'm terrified of you, V." McGonagal cringes, not wanting to admit it, but also understanding the importance of being honest at a time like this.

"Terrified?" Spektor laughs. "You?"

"Do you blame me? After what you did to that poor girl. And those kids... And not to mention, the people you chose to surround yourself with..." McGonagal sighs.

"That's right. You would remember that..." She lowers her wand. "Listen, Minerva. I don't think you understand what you've done..."

"Oh, I think I do." McGonagal says, keeping her wand leveled at the devil before her. "And I suggest you go to Albus if you wish to discuss the matter further." Spektor stands there for a moment, trying to think of something, anything, to say. But before she can, McGonagal says, "You can leave now." Her head nodding in the direction of the door. Is she really going to skulk out of the office like a scolded schoolgirl? Yes. But that doesn't mean she won't get the last word. Eventually.

* * *

It's starting to feel like it used to—the good ol' paranoia creeping in, making her nerves twitch, her blood itch... The walk from Professor McGonagal's office to the owlery is almost impossible to complete with her nerves being what they are. Every step she hears behind her echoes in her mind, every voice a knife aimed at her back, her senses conspiring against her. No. These kids don't know anything. They're harmless. She takes out the small mirror Dumbledore gave her for Christmas and glances apprehensively at her ow reflection. The woman gazing back at her looks drained, and worse—scared. She finally makes the climb up the winding staircase and into the tower of fluttering owls, drawing the now crumpled envelope from her pocket, smoothing it out, and tying it to the leg of a large tawny with a penchant for nipping fingers. After the owl takes off through the window, she stands there for a moment, looking around at the rest of the birds on their perches, and gets the intense feeling that Penelope Fairchild's about to barge in, that stupid grin on her face, those eyes so full of light they can't help but leak. Looking down at her feet, she remembers the letter to Tom she found on the floor, the one from the Embassy. The one she tore up. Wait, hold on a second... How exactly did the a letter from the Embassy get into Hogwarts? Devils don't use the owl post...

* * *

The torches are burning low in their brackets, their light flickering off the rough hewn stone along the quiet halls. With a slim book tucked under her arm— _L'Apprenti Inodore_ ( _The Scentless Apprentice)—_ feet treading soundlessly on the flagstone, Victoria Spektor roams the corridors of Hogwarts quite like she used to in the good ol' days, habitually with one eye over her shoulder, her ears perked for the soft sounds of other humans lurking in the shadowed corners. And what do you know, a flit of a cloak across the intersection just ahead, and then another, and a third. She quickens her pace, stealth an afterthought since it comes so naturally. The three students have no idea they're being followed until she's right behind them.

"What are you doing out here, Potter? It's past curfew." She says quietly. The poor kid almost has a heart attack. He spins around, surprised to hear a woman's voice and not Professor Snape's.

"Just going back to the common room." He says, "We were studying...in the library..." Ron and Hermione, who are standing just a few paces behind him, nod in agreement.

"The Gryffindor common room is that way." Professor Spektor says, pointing in the direction they had just come from.

"Right. So it is." Harry says, looking to Hermione for help.

"And, pardon my curiosity but, I just came from the library and I don't remember seeing you three there." She cups her chin in her hand.

"Wellllll if it isn't little Miss Victoria!" A sinister singsong in an all-too-familiar voice from several feet above their heads. Peeves the Poltergeist's got a grin stretched ear to ear. "Oh has Peevesy gots a story for ya!"

"Oh _get lost_." Professor Spektor groans, rolling her eyes.

"Just like her hubby, she's fond of some troubly..." He cackles.

"And you'll get out of here on the fuckin' doubly." She raises her wand and shoots a curse in Peeve's direction, which rebounds off the wall and knocks one of the torches to the floor, a small pile of flames that Hermione, with serendipitously quick reflexes, promptly extinguishes. Peeves drifts away, blowing an unnecessarily wet raspberry, before finally disappearing.

"Did I tell you to put that out?" Professor Spektor barks at Hermione.

"Um...no..." Hermione's confused. She was only trying to be helpful...

"Ten points from Gryffindor." Professor Spektor grumbles. Too bad Poltergeists are already dead...

"Hey, wait—that's not fair!" Harry pipes up. "She was..."

"Answer my question." Professor Spektor orders.

"We told you. We're going..." Harry starts.

"You're lying." She cuts him off.

"Hey, I didn't know you were married..." Ron interjects.

"Surprised?" Well, she's not the most _likable_ person, to be sure.

"Why do you go by your maiden name then?" Hermione asks.

"None of your business." Professor Spektor snaps. "Where are your books?"

"What?"

"Books. You were just at the library, right? I don't see any books." It's becoming clear Professor Spektor's not going to let them slide. But around the corner comes another Professor that Harry never thought he'd be so happy to see.

"I smelled fire..." Professor Snape says, noticing the group standing in the middle of the corridor.

"Of course you did. With a nose like that..." Professor Spektor quips.

"I see you've got this under control, then." Snape says, his cheeks reddening.

"Actually, would you mind escorting these three back to the Gryffindor common room? They seem to have gotten lost." She winks. And without even waiting for a response from Snape, she's already gliding down the corridor and out of sight.

* * *

She's walking into a dark room, candle held out in front of her. When she raises it to see the room better, the feeble flame brushes against the spine of a hefty book and, in an instant, it is aflame. The fire's leaping now, from one book to the next, down the line of spines that stretch on and on, from shelf to shelf, and she's standing now in the middle of a burning library. Pages flutter around like charred leaves. The wooden shelves break like brittle bones, cracking along the grain, sighing with the relief of years of weighted words lifted from their arms. Up in smoke, the words gasp, their shapes lost to the hunger of the flame, consuming them all the same.


	23. II: The Cave

A/N: Sorry for the unreliable updating! I'm going to try and stick to a more solid schedule, but I can't make any promises. Thanks for the reviews! And the follows/favorites! Glad you guys are still interested ;)

* * *

CHAPTER XXIII

The Cave

[Hogwarts | February 1944]

* * *

It's been easier and easier for Tom to guess where to find Victoria. Recently, the options have narrowed to two: either the kitchens or the potions classroom. And since her raids on the kitchens are usually reserved for after midnight, he's presently headed straight for the dungeons. He supposes it is a bit odd that she prefers to be locked away underground, and that the only other person she has any extended contact with is Slughorn, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't prefer it that way. The door to the potions room is locked, but a quick Alohamora does the trick. After pushing the door open, his eyes immediately fall on a cloaked figure suspended from the ceiling, a noose looped round her neck, body limp and seemingly lifeless. The rope creaks as the body sways slightly. Tom's eyes widen instinctively, his breath catching in his chest for just a second before calmly striding over to her. He cranes his neck, cocking his head to one side, to peer into her pale face. When her eyes snap open, he staggers back a little.

"Just hanging out, I see." He says, poking her in the ribs, setting the pendulum in motion.

"I'm making progress." She chokes out, "But I got...stuck..." Tom drags over a chair and sets it underneath her dangling feet, and, grasping her around her middle, lifts her gently out of the noose and down to solid ground. There's a raw red ring around her neck where the rope dug into her skin, and a deep purple bruise beginning to blossom around it—her skin the canvas for a grotesque watercolor painting. Tom traces the mark with one of his long fingers. She doesn't wince.

"You're demented." He says, kissing her on the forehead. She smiles up at him. "So is it ready yet?"

"I said I'm making _progress_." She says, bustling over to the bubbling cauldron and scratching some illegible markings on the piece of parchment beside it. "Getting there, though. Slowly but surely..."

"How much longer?" Tom whines, taking a tendril of her hair and wrapping it around his index finger.

"I don't _know_." She says with a wrinkling of her nose, shoving him out of the way. "The trouble is, it's working quite well on _me_ , but I don't know how it'll work on others..."

"But see, that's why we need to _test it_." Tom says, placing his hand in the way of her quill.

"You know how risky that would be. Unless you're eager to volunteer..."

"Really, Victoria? I can't believe you're suggesting..." A look of disgust contorts his handsome face.

"Alright alright...what do you want me to do then, hmmm?" She sighs, setting down her quill, turning her big black eyes on him now, shining despite the dim light.

"Bottle this up and bring it tonight." He says.

"Oooo is that an invitation? To one of your little _meetings?_ " She teases.

"Yes." He says seriously. "But you must be on your best behavior." She winks, smiling impishly.

* * *

Lestrange is lounging with his feet on a desk, his shoes caked in mud, whistling something unrecognizable, but irritating just the same. Avery is at the chalkboard, doodling figures engaging in violent, disgusting, and in the case of his most recent addition, obscene interactions. These two are supposed to be supervising the group of first years clustered in the corner, but, naturally, they're not too concerned about responsibilities. At least, not until the door to the classroom creaks open. The two scramble to their feet, trying to look like they were doing whatever it was they were instructed to do. They immediately relax, however, when they see that Tom has brought along V.

"You already know these two." Tom sighs dismissively, striding past Lestrange and Avery. "But these, my dear, are your test subjects." He gestures to the group of first years, now looking up at V expectantly.

"Where's the cake?" One of them, a blonde girl with pigtails, chirps. "He said there'd be cake."

"There's gonna be cake?" V's eyes light up, and she turns to Tom, who gives her a hard look. "Oh." She says under her breath, deflated.

"Um. There will be cake. But that's the...reward. First you need to help me with something." She says, squatting down to the cold flagstone. After rummaging for a moment inside her pocket, she draws out an ornate glass bottle and unstoppers it. She takes a swig and then offers it to the girl with the pigtails. "Your turn." V smiles kindly. The girl takes a sip, not thinking twice about the advice her parents have given her to be wary of just these sorts of situations. When she goes to hand the bottle back to V, instead V gestures for her to give it to the boy standing just behind her—a scruffy Gryffindor with mousy brown hair. He shrugs his shoulders and takes a sip, immediately sticking his tongue afterwards.

"Ewwww what _was that_?" He grimaces.

"It's a potion that I need to test..." V says, "I invented it."

"What's it do?" The last first year, another Gryffindor, sniffs it skeptically.

"It makes you stronger." Tom interjects, towering over the three kids.

"Cool!" The last boy says, and takes a big gulp. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and gives the bottle back to V, who quickly stoppers it and slips it back inside her robes.

"Excellent." She says, rising from her crouch and straightening up. "Now we just have to wait."

"Wait for what?" The kids ask.

"Cake, of course." V says. The first years acquiesce and return to the game of gobstones they had been playing before Tom and V arrived.

"Well done." Tom whispers in V's ear, making the tiny hairs on the back of her neck perk up.

"Who are they?"

"Dunno. Those two found them." Tom shrugs, jerking his thumb in the direction of Avery and Lestrange.

"What are you whispering about?" Avery questions snidely, sidling up to them.

"Your artwork, Avery. It's quite... _captivating_..." Tom says. Avery goes red, having forgotten the rude drawings he'd left on the chalkboard.

"Haha yeah..." He backs awkwardly over to the offending images and begins to erase them with his sleeve.

"So this is it then? These are your...?" V searches for the name, coming up blank.

"Knights of Walpurgis." Lestrange says gallantly, throwing his shoulders back.

"So far, yes. Also, Malfoy's thinking of joining, and we're working on getting some others..." Tom trails off, scanning down his mental list of potential recruits.

"Surprised you didn't rope Penelope into this." V says to Lestrange, who's started whistling that awful tune again. "Or is this boys only—no girls allowed?"

"Penelope's not really cut out for this sort of thing..." Lestrange says. "Now that you mention it, she's only good for one thing, really..." He snickers. Avery elbows him in the ribs, dirty boy.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." V checks her watch; its almost time. Just a bit longer until the potion takes full effect. She's already noticing the three first years start to get drowsy, which is one of the side effects.

"Where are we taking them?" V turns to Tom, lowering her voice. "We're not going to test it here are we?"

"No, no of course not. I thought the forest, maybe? There's this cave..."

"A cave? In the Forbidden Forest?" V laughs a little. "Couldn't find any place creepier?"

"The Hogsmeade cemetery was booked." He winks.

"Again with the whispering." It's Lestrange this time. "Flirt with your boyfriend on your own time, this is a serious meeting." V spins around, takes out the bottle, and waves it in front of him.

"Did I just hear you volunteer? Excellent." There's a nice loud pop as she unstoppers it.

"No! No!" Lestrange throws his hands up in front of him. His sudden display of concern makes V chuckle.

"It's not poison, stupid." She takes another sip. "But it does taste like pickling vinegar, with a hint of slug..." She ate a slug once on a dare, so she knows.

* * *

They set off down the sloping lawns towards the dark forest. It's nearing midnight, and it's the night of the new moon, so the sky's still and lightless as a pool of ink. There's an odd silence about the evening as well, as if a muffling charm's been placed over the grounds, making their footfalls noiseless as a ghost's. Convenient, to be sure. They've just reached the edge of the forest, and Avery sneaks up beside V, who's bringing up the rear, making sure none of the first-years wander off.

"What are you going to do to them?" He says, a hint of excitement in his voice.

"Haven't decided yet." V shrugs. That's partially true. She's got a vague idea.

"Can't believe he found someone as fucked up—err, I mean _similar..._ " He muses.

"I don't think you meant to say that out loud." V says flatly, looking straight ahead.

"Did I say something?" Avery says, suddenly nervous.

"We're not supposed to be in here." The girl chirps, voice as bouncy as her pigtails, looking up at V with her big blue eyes. Her Ravenclaw scarf is bundled up around her neck, so her speech is a bit muffled.

"You can go wherever you want, and don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise." V says with a wink. They've come to the mouth of a cave, which is partially hidden by brush. Tom clears the entrance and ushers everyone inside. V pauses outside. Tom pulls out of his pocket a small box, which, upon enlarging, reveals a sloppy chocolate cake. He takes it inside, lays out a picnic blanket, and gives each first-year a slice. They gobble it down eagerly, hands and faces sticky with icing, and beg for more. Baked inside the cake is a powerful sedative, and after three pieces each the first years don't even know where they are anymore. This explains why they aren't even fazed by the sudden appearance of a large black snake...

"Looks like the venom isn't affecting them..." V says, kneeling by the Gryffindor boy with the mousey brown hair. He's bleeding from his head, right arm, and right shoulder, from where his body collided with the top of the cave after being thrown several feet in the air by a large black snake. The bleedings the worst from the snake bite on his arm, where the infernal thing sunk it's fangs deep enough into his flesh to certainly cause a fatal wound. But he's healing up good now under V's expert care and experimental potion. Thank god they were all practically unconscious during the attack—it would've been that much worse to hear them scream. She's already healed the other two kids, who are now slumped up against a rock next to Lestrange and Avery, who also partook in the cake. Idiots.

"I'm cold." Lestrange murmurs. "Someone fetch me a blanket."

"You're not sleeping out here." Tom walks over and kicks him. "Get up. Both of you. We've got to get these kids back to the castle."

"Wait, you've got to wipe their memories." V reminds Tom, who then promptly sets to work with the first Gryffindor boy, bending over him like a bird of prey, wand perched delicately between his long fingers, muttering the incantation. Then the second Gryffindor boy... then...

"AAAARGGH!" Lestrange leaks a strangled scream, pointing a quivering arm at something above V's head. "IT'S...IT'S..." She looks up to see a pair of fangs, then a whole set of gleaming sharp teeth, then a pair of yellow eyes...

"WEREWOLF!" Avery shrieks, jumping up. V quickly transforms into the snake, prompting the werewolf to retreat a few paces in shock. She hisses menacingly at the creature, who growls back just as aggressively. She swings her head quickly inTom's direction, ordering him to take the kids and his stupid friends and get the hell out of there.

"Let's go then! Move along." He pushes Lestrange and Avery towards the mouth of the cave, and casts a hover charm on the three first years. V blocks the werewolf's path as they make a run for it.

"You're just gonna leave her there?" Lestrange gasps, once they've put significant distance between themselves and the cave.

"Absolutely not." Tom says matter-of-factly, letting the kids fall with a thud to the forest floor. "Watch them." And with that he walks back into the forest, wand drawn, leaving Lestrange and Avery shivering a clearing with three unconscious children.

* * *

"Merlin's beard—what happened to you?" Headmaster Dippet exclaims as V trudges through the door of his office. Her body falls with a leaden thump in the plush chair across from his desk.

"Got in a..." She begins, but then switches abruptly to "I dunno..." She shrugs. "Sleepwalking?"

"Are you familiar with Daphne Fontaine?"

"Who?"

Dippet waves over his shoulder and the young girl emerges from a shadowy corner of the office, escorted by Professor Albus Dumbledore. It's the Ravenclaw girl with the pigtails.

"Daphne, is this the woman who gave you the strange potion?" Dippet asks. The girl nods. V arches an eyebrow. She shouldn't remember any of that...Unless...

"I've never seen that kid in my life." She says dismissively.

"Yes you have! You took me and Ruggles and Weatherford down to...the forest...gave us cake..." She struggles to recall the details—everything after the cake is a blur. "Something awful happened to them, I know that. But I don't remember what..."

"Neither do they." Dumbledore says. "But it's obvious _something_ happened to them, judging by the scars..." The poor girl stands beside Dumbledore, trembling, her skin patched with bandages.

"I don't even know who Ruggles and Weatherford are. Why would I give you cake? This is such a waste of time."

"But your friends were there too, and..." Daphne Fontaine stammers.

"And who?" Dippet asks.

"I don't know his name...but I think he's the Head Boy..."

"Tom?" Dippet laughs. "Now really, Miss Fontaine. This is starting to sound like a tall tale." Dumbledore narrows his eyes—connecting the dots, possibly?

"It's not! It's true! And there was a werewolf, and a giant snake, and they fought...and...and..." Daphne stammers, growing red in the face. There's a rapping on the headmaster's door, and Professor Dumbledore crosses the room briskly to answer it. A petit, scraggly man with ruffled hair and a quill tucked behind his ear barges into the room. As soon as V notices his Auror's uniform, she sinks as far down into her chair as possible.

"I'd like to request a meeting with one of your students." The Auror says, approaching Headmaster Dippet and whipping out a letter of approval stamped by the Ministry of Magic.

"And what's this about?" Headmaster Dippet inquires, scrutinizing the letter.

"I'm investigating the case of Lucinda Spektor's murder, and her sister, Victoria Spektor is a suspect. In order to proceed, I'll need to formally interrogate her."

"Hmm." Dippet says, looking from the letter, down to V, and back to the Auror. "You have excellent timing. She's right here." The Auror looks down at the wasted figure of V Spektor, and holds out his hand in greeting.

"Abernathy Hardscrabble." He says forcefully. V takes his hand and gives it a firm shake.

"Victoria Spektor." She grunts.

"Ministry regulations state I must secure us a private venue for this conversation. Please accompany me." And without waiting for a response, he binds her hands together with a flick of his wand. "I'll have her back before the day is out." As an aside to Dippet.

"Wait a second—where are you taking me?" V chokes out.

"To the Ministry, where else?" Hardscrabble takes her arm, pulls her to her feet, and escorts her out of the office. She casts a fleeting glance back at Dippet, who has already engaged Professor Dumbledore in conversation, and is giving Daphne Fontaine a consoling pat on her small blonde head.


	24. II: Everybody's Talking

A/N: Hello again! So it's been a while. Sorry about that! I've pretty much got this whole thing planned out to the end, so I'm going to try to be more consistent with writing/updating the rest. As always, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

CHAPTER XXIV

Everybody's Talking

Hogwarts | March 1944

* * *

Julia Pembroke chews her droobles gum loudly, her plump red lips smacking together, jaw working rigidly, mechanically. After just having paid a visit to her girlfriend, she's walking down the long, winding staircase from the Ravenclaw dorms, a tin canister of tea leaves in her hand. Sunlight struggles through the chinks in the thick clouds hanging over the grounds—Pembroke can see them through the stained glass windows dotting the tower walls as she descends. A storm's coming. Hannigan had been asking about V, whether Pembroke had seen her recently and knew what the hell was going on with her. Rumors are spreading rapidly and Pembroke had to admit that no, she hadn't seen hide nor hair of the elusive V Spektor since last month. This explains why she nearly chokes on her gum when, rounding a corner, she's face to face with her absent friend.

"Is it really _you_? Or are yeh a ghost?" Pembroke jokes, waving her arms in front of her to test whether V's solid or not. V doesn't laugh. Pembroke knocks her in the shoulder. Not a ghost, then. "Where the hell've yeh been, huh?"

"Around." V mutters vacantly.

"Helloooo?" Pembroke steps closer, putting her face right up into V's. "Wha's up with yeh then? I never see yeh, even at mealtimes. Wha's all this trouble yeh've got yerself wrapped up in? Yer still seeing _him_ , aren'tcha?"

"Which one of those questions do you want me to answer first?" V's monotone is unnerving.

"Are yeh really spending _all_ yer time with 'im?" Pembroke asks, with an ill-concealed chuckle. That would explain why she's acting so much like him.

"I sure wish people would stop asking me questions. It's so much easier to avoid questions when…" V trails off. The look she's giving Pembroke is detached, although Pembroke swears there's a sadness in there, a plea for a rescue of some sort.

"It's just…all this stuff people 'r sayin about yeh…" Pembroke looks down at her feet, kicks her heel against the wall.

"If you believe any of that you're much more of an idiot than I thought you were." V says. Then, oh—look, there it is! There's that smirk.

"Hey!" Pembroke shouts, cackling.

"So what are they saying now? That I'm hunting children, boiling them down, and making potions out of them? Preserving their beating hearts in jars? Selling their fresh blood to vampires on the black market?" V grins. Pembroke glances around nervously. "Really though, that thing with the kids—that was nothing."

"Nothin?" Pembroke says.

"Pfft." V rolls her eyes.

"They're sayin you're mad."

"Perhaps I am." V shrugs. "Does it really matter?"

"Well…no…" Pembroke says slowly, "I guess not…" They start walking together in the direction of the Great Hall. Pembroke, in a bold gesture of friendship, loops her arm through V's. "Have ya thought about what'cher gonna do after graduation?"

"Not really." V muses, secretly reveling in the pressure of Pembroke's arm against hers, the warmth of her body, the familiar, friendly touch. "I'm not too concerned."

"Yeh should try fer a post at St. Mungo's." Pembroke says. "You've got a real knack fer healing. Yer a shoe-in."

"Healed you enough, haven't I?" V scoffs. "Your parents should thank me. Not that you've ever told them about that time in the lake…"

"Oh ho! Looky looky, it's our resident murderer!" A beefy Gryffindor boy bellows, his face red and square, eyes glinting with mirth.

"Quite glamorous, this shot of you. Bet you alway dreamt of making the first page, no?" Another, scrawnier Gryffindor boy says, stepping forward, holding out the latest copy of _the Daily Prophet_ , hot of the presses. "Tell us, what excites you more? Killing children or whoring around?" quips Irvine Cotswold. The group that's amassed behind them gets a good chuckle out of that one. They're standing at the foot of the stairs, just outside the doors of the Great Hall. V pauses before reaching the bottom, Pembroke still on her arm. Cotswold nods towards Pembroke. "Is she as good with the ladies as I hear she is with the fellows?" Pembroke blushes a deep red, eyes narrowing. She disengages from her friend, jams the tea canister into the pocket of her robes, and begins rolling up her sleeves. Cotswold takes a step back.

"Yeah yeh step back before I rip out yer tongue an' shove it up yer filthy…"

"Shhh." V places a delicate hand on Pembroke's shoulder, which immediately silences her. She sees Edward O'Connor amongst the sea of faces, in the distance, trying to appear as though he is not looking, but certainly looking, and listening, and waiting. She tries to catch his eye, but no luck. With a step down, the crowd pushes back, and then another step, they retreat a bit more. Once on their level, she approaches Cotswold, who, defiantly, refuses to give ground. He's clutching the newspaper in front of him, and she reaches out with her slim, manicured hands, to ease it from his grip. And there she stands, uncomfortably close to the scrawny, pimply 6th year, evaluating the front page article he had been brandishing at her. After a moment she looks up, her eyes meeting his dead on.

"Mind if I keep this?" She asks, tucking it under her arm. Cotswold is incapable of responding. She touches him lightly on the arm, leans in very close, and whispers something in his ear. His eyes widen.

"Thanks." She says aloud, and brushes past him. He swivels in her wake, watching her make her way through the crowd to the Great Hall. Pembroke rushes to catch up with her, knocking Cotswold hard in the ribs with a stray elbow on accident, of course.

"Whatcha say to 'im?" Pembroke huffs, breathless.

"I asked him if he really wants to know what it's like to be properly fucked." V says casually, stepping into the Great Hall and walking over to the Slytherin table. Pembroke's jaw falls open. "Not in the sexual sense, obviously." V clarifies. Pembroke nods. V's not exactly helping her case now is she?

"Ah, Spektor! Tell me, how's good ol' Sluggy doin'?" Avery cracks, pleasantly surprised to see her turn up for a meal. "Studying to be the next potions master? Heh heh."

"Potions isn't all he teaches me about, if you know what I mean…" V winks.

"Hah! I _knew_ it!" Avery cackles, thumping his hand down on the table, the cutlery clattering against the dishes.

"That's disgusting, V." Pembroke jeers.

"You must not know what I mean then." V smiles cheekily.

"I heard from Lestrange that Fairchild told him that Olive Hornby's saying she saw you snogging O'Connor in an empty classroom on the fifth floor." Avery says before tearing a large chunk of flesh from a turkey leg.

"The fifth floor. Hm, that's a nice idea." V says dismissively, sipping her pumpkin juice, and glancing around. Riddle and Lestrange just entered, and are now approaching the table. V knows he's behind her before he puts his hand on her shoulder. She turns her head up to him and he stoops slightly, bestowing upon her beckoning, neatly painted red lips, a lingering kiss. "How lucky am I?" She says, smiling up at him. "Today they're serving turkey."

"Your favorite." Riddle says, sitting between Pembroke and Spektor. He's probably the only one who'd be able to shove Pembroke to the side—she's terrified of him. Even sitting next to him, she's visibly uncomfortable. "What's eating you, Pembroke?" He asks, noticing how tense she's become, how she's trying to meet V's eyes.

"Ummm." Pembroke glances around anxiously. "Uhhhh hey V could I see that paper yeh've got?"

"Yeah, sure." V says, reaching across Riddle to hand Pembroke Cotswold's copy of the _Prophet_. Pembroke wrinkles her nose and, after a nod of the head and a roll of the eyes in Riddle's direction, she unfolds the paper and shields herself with it. "I'm going to be working late tonight in the dungeons." She says to Riddle, batting her eyes.

"Sounds like you've got some competition, Riddle." Avery quips, mouth full. "If I was you, I wouldn't put up with all these late-night rendezvous with ol' Sluggy."

"What's he talking about?" Riddle asks V, as if Avery isn't even there. Sure he knows about the rumors. Of course he does. And he knows they aren't true, at least with Slughorn, because he's watched her. Not all the time. But every so often, just to check in, to be sure.

* * *

The castle's so peaceful at night. She's come to treasure her hours of prefect patrol duty, the quiet comfort of solitude, of darkness not just in the corners, but all around. And then, a glint of yellow, and shuffling footsteps, furtive whispers. V mutters _lumos_ and in front of her appears a small group of Hufflepuff first years, four in all. Their eyes widen in terror, not just from being caught by a prefect, but from being caught by this particular prefect. They squeal and scatter. V takes off running after them, extinguishing her wand in hopes of intercepting them at another juncture. But instead she rounds a corner and runs straight into Edward O'Connor, the collision knocking both students to the floor. He rises first, and extends a hand to help her up.

"Were those kids running from you?" He jerks his thumb back over his shoulder.

"Yeah, well, I'm a prefect, aren't I? Speaking of which, what are you doing out of bed? There's a curfew, you know…" V says, brushing herself off.

"Right you are. Sorry, just a bit of late night studying. You know, I'm still in the market for a Potions tutor if you're still available…and if your _boyfriend_ will _allow_ it…" Putting his arm out, he props himself casually against the wall.

"I'm quite busy, at the moment, actually. And for a while. A long while. I'll be busy for a long long time I suspect."

"It's ok, I understand. Although, it's too bad really…I could use the help."

"You don't understand. But that's fine." She dismisses, folding her arms across her chest.

"You know, I don't believe what they say about you." O'Connor lowers his voice.

"Good. All of it is true." She says with a coy smirk.

"No it's not. I know for a fact one thing isn't true." He steps to her and pushes her back against the wall, his lips soon on hers, his tongue slipping between them, his energy overtaking her.

"Depends on your version of the truth." She whispers.

"Mmmhmmm." He kisses her again, the stubble on his chin tickling her smooth skin. "What version is this?"

"The incorrect one." She bites his lip. He narrows his eyes, leans farther into her, his hand, over her skirt, tracing a line from her thigh to her hip.

"Does he tell you how beautiful you are?" O'Connor breathes. He's looking at the scars on her arms, then at the deep black shadows around her eyes. "You don't deserve this, V. You deserve someone who treats you with kindness, with respect." He rubs her arm.

"You think Tom gave me these?" She asks with a laugh, following his gaze. "You think he _abuses_ me?"

"It's ok — you don't have to cover it up any more. You don't have to be afraid of him." O'Connor says, "I'll stand up for you. I'll protect you." He kisses her again.

"I'm not _afraid_ of anyone." V says, locking eyes with the tall, handsome Gryffindor.

"V, please. Give me a chance at least…" O'Connor says, his hand gliding down her back now.

"Don't make me hex you, Edward." Her eyes flash a warning. He feels her wand against his side. He retreats.

"C'mon now, is that how you treat the others?" O'Connor says, frowning.

"Others?" She says, holding up her wand now in the space between them.

"Riddle, Slughorn, Avery, Carrow, Selwyn…"

"Selwyn? _Really_ ?" V muses, twirling her wand between her fingers. "Who put you up to this, Edward? Was it Fairchild?"

"Lestrange." He blurts.

"Ah. Of course." She says, stepping closer.

"We had a bet going." He didn't want to say it, but he couldn't help it. Something about her…that stare…

"A bet?"

"That I could get you to cheat on Riddle."

"I swear, one of these days, I'll just have to kill him." She mutters under her breath.

"Really?" O'Connor laughs nervously.

"Pffft. I dunno, _maybe_." She rolls her eyes. "Well, too bad you didn't win. Although you should've anticipated that, going in. A foolish wager…" He looks confused. He _did_ win. She's raising her wand, and once he realizes that she's about to wipe the incident clear out of his memory, it's too late for him to reach for his own wand.

"Miss Spektor? Mr. O'Connor? What's going on here?" Right on cue, Albus Dumbledore comes striding down the hallway towards them. V curses under her breath.

"Absolutely nothing." V says unconvincingly. O'Connor just stares at Dumbledore blankly.

"We were just…uh…talking." O'Connor fumbles, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other.

"He's out of bed past curfew." V says, pointing at O'Connor.

"So he is." Dumbledore says, arching an eyebrow. "Why don't you turn in early, Miss Spektor. You look like you could use the rest. I'll escort Mr. O'Connor back to the Gryffindor common room."

"Right sir. Thanks sir." V mutters. She's reluctant to let O'Connor out of her sight with that memory still buzzing about up there in his skull, but there's nothing she can do about it tonight, so she resigns to retreat to the dungeons.


	25. II: Both Sides Now

A/N: Sorry for the absurdly long interval between this and the previous update! I'm fairly sure that the end is in sight, and I will do my best to update more frequently. Thank you, as always, to those who have favorited, followed, and reviewed this story. It really means a lot to me when you take the time to write a review, and I love hearing what you all have to say ;)

* * *

Chapter XXV

Both Sides Now

Hogwarts | February 1995

* * *

"I can't continue on like this, Albus. Either you offer assistance in catching the nasty child who's defacing my property or you provide me with more secure accommodations." Dolores Umbridge huffs between forkfuls of potatoes.

"I am afraid more 'secure' accommodations simply do not exist, Dolores." Dumbledore replies disinterestedly, his mind on other, more important things. "And I assure you, we are doing all we can to track down this mysterious tormenter of yours."

"I don't like what you're insinuating, sir." She chirps. Dumbledore turns his head to give her a blank look. "That there _is_ no vandal, right? That I'm mad? Sometimes I think I'm the only sane one in this ruddy castle!"

"Maybe you are." Professor Spektor mutters as she walks behind Umbridge's chair, going down the line of the staff table to her seat between Hagrid and Snape.

"You!" Umbridge cries. "I've been looking for you!"

"No you haven't." Professor Spektor mutters.

"No. I haven't." Umbridge says quietly to herself, shaking her head slightly, as though thinking to herself S _illy me, why did I just say that?_ Spektor shoots a quick look at Dumbledore, who's staring directly at her with his bright blue eyes. No need to hide it anymore. If Dumbledore thinks he knows what he's up against, she might as well set the record straight. Make him shake in his pointy handcrafted Italian leather slippers a bit.

"Dolores?" Albus says, concerned.

"Albus? What is it?" It's as if Umbridge has forgotten everything they've just been talking about.

"So you wish to continue to stay at the castle then?" Dumbledore asks.

"Of course. Why not? I love Hogwarts. And children. Nothing better than being surrounded by all these lovely, fresh-faced little cherubs, am I right?" She picks up a chicken leg and eats the whole thing with very minimal chewing, bone and all, swallowing with a loud gulp. Dumbledore's all shock and confusion.

"Right, of course." Dumbledore says slowly, eyes on Spektor, who has begun to help herself to an inhuman portion of mashed turnips. When he is no longer looking, Spektor slips Snape a piece of parchment under the table. He waits a minute or so before glancing down to read it.

 _Meet me in the courtyard at half past midnight._

His eyes dart to the woman next to him to see if she's willing to elaborate on the note, but she's too busy shoveling in the turnips and ham she's heaped on her plate. It doesn't take her long to polish it off, and when she's finished she stands abruptly from the table and pauses behind Umbridge's chair again.

"Don't you think you've eaten enough, Dolores?" She mumbles. Dolores drops the bread that had been poised to enter her mouth. Dumbledore reaches out and grabs Spektor's arm before she flits away.

"What are you doing?" He whispers angrily at the devil hovering about Umbridge's shoulders.

"I'm not sure what you're insinuating, sir." Spektor says. Dumbledore glares. "I'm visiting a friend this weekend, so you'll have to give my Hogsmeade duties to someone else. Minerva seems eager, she'd be my pick."

"This isn't a game, Victoria." Dumbledore says seriously. "I expect a full report when you get back."

"Do I look like I'm having fun?" Spector asks, smiling widely. Dumbledore waves her away, feeling nervous. That smile made him nervous. She seemed so unenthusiastic, so opposed even, to the idea of carrying out this plan. Perhaps he's made a terrible mistake. Or perhaps she's a very good actor. No, he will not concede to self-doubt. He's Albus Dumbledore, and he seriously doubts that a convict who's spent most of her life alone in a cell could possibly rival him in wisdom, knowledge, and power. But she doesn't need to rival him. She just needs to know what he doesn't.

* * *

In the courtyard, bathed in the light of a waxing moon, Severus Snape shivers, his sleeves pulled down over his broad, pale hands. He looks to his left, then to his right, then his left again. He arrived early, but it's just half past midnight now and he hopes she's not going to be late. With a sigh of relief, he catches the sight of a figure approaching from across the courtyard, walking straight towards him, black cloak drawn tightly around her.

"Thank you for being punctual." V says once close enough to speak quietly. With her voice escapes a cloud of hot vapor, hanging between them briefly before dissipating into the cold February air.

"What is this about then?"

"Fancy a trip to Hogsmeade?"

"What? Now? It's past midnight."

"Yes, I'm aware of that Severus." She smiles. "There's a passage through this tree, the Whomping Willow down by the lake, that leads to the…"

"Shrieking Shack. Yes. I know it." Snape says.

"Would you walk with me? It's been a long time, and I'd rather not go alone."

"May I ask what you…intend to _do_ once you get there?" Snape ventures.

"Severus I'm flattered, but understand my intentions are…" But she doesn't finish the thought. Snape's staring at her, concentrating hard, his cheeks slightly flush from the cold, or from nerves, or both. He's trying read her. Good luck with that. But she catches a glimpse of a very private thought of his and, in response, reaches up and places her hand over his eyes. She can see his body tense, his breath catch. "You're in dangerous territory." She whispers.

"What are you doing?" He stammers nervously. She smiles, although he can't see it.

"Exactly what you want me to do." She says, and places her lips on his. He doesn't expect it. Not in the least. She removes her hand from his eyes and he regards her with the strangest look she's ever seen him wear. He looks like he's about to cry and laugh at the same time. She kisses him again as he stands there before her, rigid and anxious. "Am I right?" She asks.

"You shouldn't have done that." He says nervously.

"I know." She says, eyes glittering. "That's fine. Just doing my part to help you get what you want. That's what friends are for, so I hear."

"We're friends?" Snape asks. V shrugs. "What is it you want, then?" She's gone and scattered the seed, and now an absurd hope has begun to blossom deep within him.

"I want my husband to love me." She says. Snape's eyes widen.

"Husband?" He arches an eyebrow. V holds out her hand, the gold ring with its polished stone glistening in the moonlight. Snape shakes his head in disbelief.

"Surprised? Do you think I'm not, as they say, 'marriage material?'"

"You're joking." Snape laughs out loud. Surely, she must be. "How come you go by your maiden name, then?" Why is everyone so damn curious about that? Is it really so strange for a woman to keep her own name?

"Well I couldn't file for a name change with the Ministry while I was in hiding, now could I?" V rolls her eyes, folding her arms across her chest. Right, that makes sense, Snape thinks. Oh shit, she's telling the truth. He just kissed the Dark Lord's _wife_. "Oh don't worry yourself about it." She says, regarding the kiss, which she can tell he's thinking about. "No big deal, really. It's not like I'm gonna tell him about it. I've gotten in enough trouble as it is in that department." Her smile offers no reassurance to the fidgeting Potions master. He's gotten himself in a sticky situation alright, and he's still unable to gauge where her allegiance truly lies.

"Does Albus know?" Severus whispers. She gives him a piercing look, and nods her head slowly, painfully so.

"Severus, listen." She steps closer, whispers in his ear, "In whatever capacity you are trying to puzzle it out, you need to know this: I am invested in one thing and one thing only, and that is myself. And don't you think to yourself that I'm lying, saying this to cover up some allegiance to either side, to throw you off the trail. Trust me, I am not to be trusted."

He tosses that last part around in his brain for a bit, a clever little phrase she cobbled together there. Should he take her at her word? Perhaps, given a little more time, he'll be able to tell. She takes his hand in hers.

"Walk me to the willow, would you? It's getting awfully late." He squints at her in the darkness, and with a stiff nod, he leads her from the courtyard to the sloping lawn beyond.

* * *

Shivering violently in the midwinter pre-dawn, Victoria Spektor walks quickly up the paved drive leading to Malfoy Manor. The door is answered by the Malfoys' house elf, Dobby, who gazes up at her with big wobbly eyes.

"Victoria Spektor." She says, extending her hand. The house elf regards her nervously, as though she were about to smack him across the face. Guess they don't shake hands with witches, do they? "Tom's expecting me." Dobby gives her a blank look. "Right, um…I mean…The Dark Lord is expecting me." She mumbles begrudgingly, trying to curb the sarcasm in her voice. The house elf closes the door and after an excruciatingly long ten minutes, the door opens again to reveal a tall, chalk-white man, bald, red eyes glowing in the polished foyer. His thin mouth forms a smile.

"Ah, look who it is." Lord Voldemort says, "And to what do I owe this pleasant surprise?" He steps aside to let her in.

"You speak French, right?" She asks as he takes her cloak, slipping it delicately from her shoulders. He nods. "I need your help then. I want to read this but it's all in French and I can't make heads or tails of it." From her pocket she pulls a slim book and hands it to him.

"This is a children's book." Lord Voldemort says, confused. It's old, with intricate foiled letters spelling out the title, _The Scentless Apprentice._ He flips through the pages. It seems simple enough. The illustrator sure had a flair for depicting the grotesque.

"Yes, well then you should have no trouble understanding it." She winks.

"You want me to read this to you?" His laugh pierces her. It's too cold. She nods. He's walking toward the staircase now, pausing at the bottom to wave V along. Her heels skitter across the glossy black and white tiled floor, and she follows him upstairs, and then down the plushly carpeted hallway, all the while making not a sound. Light is leaking from the crack under the door at the end, and, with a wave of his wand, it opens to reveal a rather large, richly furnished bedroom, fire crackling in the grate, candle burning on the nightstand beside the queen-sized four-poster bed, draped with dark velvet the color of which, in the dim lighting, V can't quite make out.

She walks over to the fire to warm herself, and soon he joins her, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. She breathes in slowly, casting a glance at the man standing beside her. Not only has his body changed, but so has his voice, his scent, his aura. Her muscles tighten not due to nerves or arousal, but an automatic fight-or-flight response, sensing the dark, intensely negative energies he's emitting. Her body will not allow her to get too comfortable, her guard will not be let down. Constant vigilance, as Mad-Eye would say.

"Shall we, then?" She says, motioning with her eyes towards the bed. He smiles that same smile; at least that hasn't changed. It's the one thing that's helping her see old Tom in him, who was a monster still, yes, but less visibly so, and certainly not as far gone. Settling her body atop the soft mattress, she props several pillows between her tired head and the ornate wooden headboard. He sits down beside her, and, nuzzling her head on his shoulder, she yawns widely. "Get on with it…before I fall asleep…"

"Right then." He squints, holding the book up, and clears his throat. "The Scentless Apprentice by Mallory D'Arbanville…"


	26. II: And Whose Army?

A/N: Rapid fire updates! Some more unlikely alliances. Who the hell can you trust these days, I mean seriously...

* * *

Chapter XXVI

And Whose Army?

[Hogwarts | February 1995]

* * *

Harry Potter is creeping down a long desolate hallway under cover of his treasured cloak of invisibility, careful not to place his feet too loudly upon the flagstone. In his arms are a stack of books just lifted from the library's restricted section, and he's approaching a blank stretch of wall that, upon his arrival, slowly transforms before his bespectacled green eyes to reveal an ornate set of double doors. He pushes through them and is greeted, once inside the cavernous room, by a rather sizable group of students. Harry thunks the books down on a table and rolls up his sleeves.

"Who's ready to get to work?" He says boisterously. The students follow suit, removing their wands from their bags and pockets, and rolling up their sleeves, tying their hair back, and some even performing a stretch or two to get the muscles warmed up.

"What're we learnin' today, 'arry?" Seamus Finnegan asks.

"Thought we'd go over some basic attacks. Nothing too violent, of course, but we're not going to be able to get by on merely self defense."

"Harry, I thought we said we weren't going to…" Hermione chimes in, but is cut off by Ron.

"No, Harry's right. Can't have a strong defense without a good offense." Ron says.

"We're not talking about Quidditch, Ron. We're talking about…" Hermione huffs, rolling her eyes.

"Hermione, do you want to get killed?" Ron snaps in an uncharacteristically serious manner. Hermione's eyes widen. She shakes her head. "Then we need to know as much as we can. Deadly curses or not. Go on, Harry. What've you got?"

"Um…yeah. Right. So we'll start with this one, I guess. Everyone ready your wands and repeat after me…"

* * *

Harry's packing everything up at the end of the weekly "Dumbledore's Army" meeting, his forehead warm, his eyes heavy with stress and exhaustion. Ron comes over to him and claps him on the back.

"Good job today, mate." He says, poking a wad of Droobles gum into his mouth and chewing it noisily.

"Thanks." Harry says. "So Ron, I've been thinking… You've spent some time one-on-one with Professor Spektor. I know Hermione doesn't trust her as far as she can throw her, but what do you think?"

"I think she's totally nuts." Ron says. "Not that it's a bad thing, of course. I mean, they call Mad-Eye "Mad-Eye" for a reason…and he's one of the best Aurors that's ever lived. But Professor Spektor's…I dunno…" He pauses, chewing sloppily. "Why?"

"I think we need more help if we're gonna advance any further. Do you think…I dunno, maybe this is stupid, but…do you think she'd help us? I mean, she knows a lot. And she's part of the Order…"

"Hermione will never go for it." Ron says. "Plus, like everyone is practically terrified of her. I think she's got a worse reputation than Snape, and that's saying something."

"Yeah, fair point. Also, she's not too keen on Dumbledore." Harry muses. She also might be working for You-Know-Who, he thinks, although he still doubts the likelihood of that. She's strange, she's worrisome, she's totally creepy, and possibly a serial killer, but also incredibly gifted with magic.

"I could ask her, I guess." Ron shrugs. "Feel it out."

"Yeah. Would you? Let me know what she says." Harry says. He's nervous about the idea, and fairly certain that it's one of the dumbest he's ever had, but who knows? "Just don't tell her it's called Dumbledore's Army."

* * *

Although Ron had worked up an entire speech, and a method of presentation designed to persuade Professor Spektor to come teach an underground class of combat magic, he never had the opportunity to use it. Instead, the next week, as the three of them crept quietly down the corridor to the Room of Requirement, Professor Spektor stumbled upon them, quite literally. Rounding a corner, the tall, skeletal woman in the long black robes walks directly into Harry Potter, the two falling hard on the cold stone floor. Professor Spektor lights her wand with a quick _lumos_ and sighs loudly when it illuminates the trio.

"Just tell me what you're up to already." She groans exasperatedly, standing up and brushing herself off. She offers a hand to Harry, which he accepts, his warm hand chilled by her cold clammy skin. She plucks something off the ground and points her wand out it, without saying a word. Then, quite delicately, she sets Harry's mended glasses back on the bridge of his nose. He didn't even realize they'd flown off.

"We're on our way to a secret meeting of students to practice combat." Ron says without hesitation. Hermione slaps a hasty hand over his mouth.

"Secret meeting." Professor Spektor raises an eyebrow, folds her arms across her chest. "I quite like those."

"We actually have been meaning to ask you if…possibly…since you're the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher…if you'd maybe come by some time and teach us some stuff…" Harry says awkwardly. Hermione, already using her hands to restrain Ron, regards Harry with shock.

"Well, seeing as I'm not actually allowed to _teach_ you anything in class, I don't see why not." She says simply. "Where's this secret meeting at then?"

"The Room of Requirement." Ron says, disengaging from Hermione.

"Ah." Professor Spektor says, her lips curling into a small smile. "Glad someone's making use of it."

"You know it?" Harry says, oddly surprised.

"Of course. Although I used it for less…noble…purposes during my time here…" She says, trailing off as she starts to walk away down the corridor. "C'mon now, you'll be late." The three hesitate, then walk quickly to catch up with her. That was easy. Not much persuading necessary. She seemed eager, actually, to help. Perhaps the restrictions placed on her curriculum are getting to her, that she's acutely aware of how unprepared her students are for what awaits them outside the castle, in the very near future.

Spektor's surprised by the invitation, but extremely delighted. What better way to get back at Dumbledore than to illicitly teach his students. What better way to make sure that the death eaters get what's coming than to personally prepare these kids to anticipate each of their moves and defend themselves accordingly. Nobody's gonna expect these kids to know anything. And she's gonna see to it that they know as much as they can.

* * *

Things are starting to become clearer. Thankfully Snape has been keeping his distance, still greeting her in passing of course, but not stoping to talk, not even coming within arm's length of her. V's spare time has now been taken up with preparing for and teaching these underground lessons to this group of students Harry Potter's amassed, and quite frankly, she finds it incredibly validating. All of these kids are here, on their free time as well, wanting to learn, eager to soak up whatever tidbit of knowledge she imparts about healing, or focusing your energy, or breathing while casting a complex curse. And they're all improving steadily, although naturally Harry is leaps and bounds ahead of the others. That Hermione though, she's unbelievably reluctant to learn, and when she does take V's instruction, it is begrudgingly. Ah well. Some weird personal vendetta that Spektor doesn't have a thought to spare on.

And when she's not teaching kids how to attack people, she's been spending more and more time in London. Part of this time is complying with Albus Dumbledore's special assignment (although she certainly doesn't give him the full report he asks for), and the rest is spent in London's various libraries, both magical and muggle, researching as much as she can on the Embassy. If she's going to carry out her plan, she needs to understand the construction and layout of the place, the people who work there, the hierarchy of command, etc. She's had some luck, but not much, and it's becoming evident that her best chance at getting the information she needs is to personally ask an Embassy employee. But who? She's wanted, and she's being watched. But there is one devil she knows, and she knows exactly where to find him.

* * *

The tenement building is even more run down than it was the first (and last) time she was there, if that's even possible. There's a layer of grime upon the brickwork that must be almost a foot thick, and most of the windows are either broken or boarded up. The front doors open easily and the entryway is cast in an oddly warm glow. A group of hunched and ragged people huddle in the corner by the stairwell, one of them sparking a lighter, bursting into bright flame in the stilted dust-choked air. V approaches them, hoping to slip down the stairs without notice, when a hand reaches out and grabs her own. She jerks it back quickly, almost inadvertently slapping the man nearest her.

"Where ye think yer goin?" A pair of glassy eyes peers up at her. Less a threat than a remark of genuine concern.

"Does Mr…Uh…" Shit, she doesn't remember his name. "Does that fellow still live down there? The older one, wears a white suit…"

"Yer _looking_ for 'im?" Another says, eyebrows disappearing into the ratty mop atop his head.

"So that's a yes, I take it." She says, and tries to continue, but another hand reaches out to hold her back.

"Are you one of those ghostbusters?" A woman's voice cackles. She's regarding V's elegant yet shabby (although not by their standards) appearance with a look of disdain.

"Ghost hunters. Summa them come by time to time. And stupid kids lookin for a good scare."

"Ghost?" V narrows her eyes. They nod solemnly. There's a crack and a shuffle in the basement hallway and the man with the lighter almost drops it.

"He's coming." The woman whispers, clambering up to her swollen feet, wrenching a shawl around her shoulders. She scuttles across the entryway to a pair of doors, and the rest follow her as quickly as they can, leaving V standing quite alone at the top of the stairs down to the basement. She senses movement, and soon there's the cool slip of leather soles on dirty cement. Someone's climbing the stairs. Slowly, the figure of the six-fingered gentleman comes into view. He doesn't look up, and brushes past V as though she were a statue, the tails of his white tuxedo jacket trailing like a ghostly wisp.

"Where do you think you're going?" V says, without turning to look at him.

"Excuse me?" He quips, and, startled, turns to face her.

"I said," She turns around, drawing her wand. "Where do you think you're _going_?"

"Out. What's it to you then? Do I _know_ you?" He screws up his face, prodding and poking around in that ancient brain of his, trying to drudge up some sort of name, connection, anything.

"Just barely. Which is good, because that means it will be much less upsetting to watch you die." V aims her wand at his heart. Maybe a bit over dramatic (although, consider who she's been hanging out with of late) but a flicker of recollection crosses his mind, and he raises his hands. Before he can cast anything, V flicks her wand and the small man is suddenly bound by thick ropes that creak as he struggles against them.

"See I told you you'd go mad." He spits.

"I'm not mad." She says, taking a step towards him. "Just a little upset." He laughs nervously, testing his limbs against the restraints. "You have two options here, as I see it. Option one, I kill you." She takes another step towards him, her heels clicking on the grimy tile. "Option two, you help me." Now that the man with the lighter has retreated to a more secure corner, it is very dim, save for the glow of the streetlights trickling in through the cracked windows in the entryway.

"Help you with what?" He sputters, the color draining from his face. The ropes, already too tight, constrict a tad more.

"That's none of your concern, for the moment at least." She says, with a sinister smile. "So what'll it be?" V presses the tip of her wand against the old devil's temple.

"Please. Please don't. I'll…I'll help you. But only if there's something in it for me."

"You're not in an optimal position to bargain, are you Sir?" She spits.

"Please. I need to clear my name." He blurts, a hint of panic in his voice that he is, to his frustration, unable to conceal.

"Funny. That's just what I needed your help with. So do I." She says, withdrawing her wand. "Well, destroying my records, which is like the same thing, I suppose. Obliterating your existence…"

"How do you plan to do it?" He squeaks. Are they ropes? Or are they snakes?

"That's also what I need your help with. I need inside information." She says. "Have we got a deal then?" The pudgy old man, sweating and straining against the bindings, nods his head vigorously.

"Yes yes yes we've got a deal. Now untie me, if you will!" He says. She complies, and he extends his hand to formalize the proceedings; the shake seals the deal. "You seem…different somehow. Did you end up marrying that human boy?" He inquires, brushing off his pristine white suit, now rumpled and creased.

"Hah. Yes. And then I got locked away in prison for fifty-some-odd years." She laughs. "Serves me right, I suppose."

"Come, let's have a drink. I think we have a lot to talk about." He says, oddly amiable, as he waves her towards the stairwell he had just ascended. She follows him down into the depths of the basement, and through the red door at the end of the hall.


	27. II: Pennyroyal Tea

A/N: Just as warning, this scene contains inappropriate conduct between a teacher and a student, and also a botched abortion.

* * *

Chapter XXVII

Pennyroyal Tea

[Hogwarts | April 1944]

* * *

There's a small mirror on the wall opposite the entrance to Slughorn's office through the potions' room. V is eyeing it with a newfound interest, having spent most of her life avoiding such things, perhaps now that she's managed to some how stave off capture, and potentially madness, she can make use of these things the way other, proper, devils do. Look at that intricate framing, shining brass. Wonder where he got this from… She approaches the looking glass, her figure looming, unfocused, until she's standing directly before it. And then, with wide, disbelieving eyes, she sees it. The most hideous creature, the most unnatural, inhuman representation of a person she's ever seen. Flat, white skin. Red eyes, unblinking, slits for pupils.

"I smell something brewing in here…must be you, Victoria! Aha! Now I wonder what you've cooked up…" Slughorn's on the move from his office to the potions classroom. He opens the door and sees V's back, sees her engrossed in the mirror. More curiously, he doesn't see a reflection. "Ha ha, clever trick, my dear!" He laughs, clapping her on the shoulder. "Now what's this you've got going here…" It's a short walk to the table where the cauldron's set up and the ingredients are strewn about. "Wormwood, Pennyroyal, Nutmeg, Bayberry…" He picks through the containers. "You're not…" Slughorn turns to V, who is still facing the mirror. His pudgy face is strained, a concerned frown working its way across his lips. "Why didn't you tell me? You know you can always ask me for help."

"If I were to ask you for help." V says in a stiff monotone. "I would have to tell you what I need help with."

"My dear Victoria! You can't just experiment with this!" He extinguishes the flame beneath her cauldron. Then, wrapping his thick arm around the girl's back, he escorts her into his office and shuts the door. "Now let me see what I can do…" He mutters, more to himself, puttering around. Always so confident in his abilities, that ol' Slughorn. On the bookcase is a dusty old volume, which he selects and splays open on the desk before him. As he flips the thin vellum pages, V drifts around the edges of the familiar room, not having to examine anything because she's already mapped the entire place in her mind. She settles herself on the chaise, head back, eyes towards the low stone ceiling crossed with wooden support beams. She can hear the clinking of bottles and jars, the spark of the cauldron, the ruffle of a page.

"There now." He says, wiping his hands on his waistcoat, striding over to sit on the edge of the chaise. V pulls her legs in and sits up, cross-legged. "We'll just let that brew, should take but a few hours. This recipe is old, but proven. Was used for centuries before the healers at St. Mungos invented the new procedure."

"Thank you, sir. You're right, I shouldn't have taken that risk—I should have come to you first." V says mechanically, casting her eyes down.

"Can I ask…If I may…Who the…um…who the father is?" Slughorn stumbles, holding his hands tightly in his lap.

"Take your best guess." a bitter smile playing about V's rosy lips.

"No no no, my dear, I am not passing judgement!" He says, reaching out now, taking her small hand in his. "I merely want to help is all." He's rubbing her hand now, with his strong, well-padded fingers. What's that look she's giving him? Is it…a dare? The corners of her mouth twitch, but not in preparation for speech. He can feel his heart revving inside of his chest, his feet pressing firmly into the floor, his body leaning towards hers…is he really going to do this? And then the kiss, inevitable, anticipated, and so so so inappropriate, yet not altogether unpleasant…for Slughorn at least. He can't sense any emotion in those shining black eyes, but she sees kindness in his, sadness, a deep caring.

"So this is your idea of helping?" She asks, he can't help but think a bit sarcastically.

"I…well…I uh…" His brow furrows. What the hell is going on here? V briefly considers whether this is a dream.

"Professor." She takes a hand and cups the side of his face. "You didn't mean to do that."

"Right…you're right…good heavens, no—I didn't, that was completely inappropriate—please, you must forgive me…" He stammers, blushing severely.

"The father is Tom Riddle." She says bluntly, changing the subject.

"Ah. So he is." Slughorn frowns. "And I assume you weren't planning on telling him…"

"I think it would be best not to tell him about any of this, don't you?" She says as she shifts her hair about her shoulders.

"Yes. Well. Of course." Slughorn says, at odds with how to take the events as they've unfolded. "I won't breathe a word of it. You can trust me."

"I know." She smiles, rises, places a hand on Slughorn's shoulder, and squeezes it tightly. "Thank you." To his shock, she brings her face back to his, planting another kiss, a very brief one, on his lips. The scent of rosemary envelops him. "I'll stop by tomorrow morning before class to pick it up." Slughorn nods, incapable of speech. She slips out the door, and, as soon as he's alone, he flops back on the chaise, feeling his forehead. He suspects that, perhaps, he is sicker than he thought. And for that matter, the young lady as well.

* * *

It's so cold. She's shivering violently under a thin white cotton blanket, pulls it up to her face, feels the foreign fiber, and jolts awake. Her eyes don't recognize anything. This isn't Hogwarts. The air is much cooler. Much cleaner. She's in a twin white metal bed, with a curtain pulled around her. She reaches for her wand but it isn't on the bedside table. Instead, her hands close around something smooth and sharp. Holding it up, she sees it a shard of mirrored glass. Little beads of blood collect on her palm where the glass cuts her. It's a sign. She rises from the bed but her body doesn't spring to action as expected. It's almost overwhelmingly difficult to sit up, put her feet firmly on the ground, and stand upright. A wave of dizziness and nausea hits her. Her stomach aches like two hands have reached inside her and are wringing it dry. When was the last time she ate? There's a pitcher of water on the nightstand, which she ignores. No wand in sight. Then she notices what she's wearing, a crisp white hospital gown, and the crest embroidered near the collar—St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Shit. She peaks around the corner, and there are rows upon rows of beds, some with the curtains drawn, some filled with sleeping bodies, some lying empty in the moonlight. She stumbles past the mint-green curtain, her balance shaky, footsteps halting. The healers must have given her something…some kind of sedative…or tranquilizer… She tries to reach back and pluck out the last thing she remembers, but it's tough. Oh that's right. Slughorn. Wait a second…that's right! _Slughorn_. How could she be so stupid? _He_ poisoned her at the Yule Ball—it wasn't just some accident. And _he_ made that potion she took that morning… But why on earth has he got it out for her?

There's movement in one of the beds. V quickly ducks down behind an empty bed. The tile floor is cold against her bare legs. She has to get out, but it is going to be extraordinarily difficult without a wand. If only she felt stronger, then maybe she could take on her snake form. A few beds down, a half-eaten meal sits discarded on a bedside table. She starts to crawl towards it, under the beds, belly flat against the floor. Silently she slips the tray off the table and starts cramming the food into her mouth. It's some sort of nasty porridge, but she eats every last bit of it. She's still weak though, and keeps crawling beneath the beds until she reaches the door at the end of the ward. Locked. But there's a window. She holds her breath, gives a good wind up, and punches the glass with her bare knuckles. It doesn't make as much noise as she anticipated, but it's sure to attract attention, so she's gotta move quick. She reaches through the broken window and unlocks the door manually from the other side, pushes it forward just enough to slide through, and lets it shut quietly behind her. There's little slivers of glass all over the floor, so she's got to be careful not to step on them. The nurses' station has been left unattended; a cup of cold tea sits beside a stack of parchment waiting to be filed. The plaque on the door she'd just broken glints in the moonlight; the Janus Thickey Ward. She's been here before, to visit her mother—who's bed she probably just crawled under. She blots the blood from her knuckles on her gown before starting to thumb through the stack of parchment on the counter. She finds her records in a matter of seconds.

Name of Patient: Victoria Spektor

Age: 18

Height: 5'10"

Weight: 125 lbs

Eye color: black?

Hair color: black

Blood pressure: 80/60

Reason for admittance: poisoning

Notes: do not leave this patient unattended

So much for following instructions, V thinks, folding the parchment and tucking it inside the band of her bra. A few drops of blood drip from her hand onto the white counter. V takes her finger and traces the shape of a question mark, leaving an ominous note for the nurse when she returns from her break. She pads down the whitewashed metal stairs, her feet freezing, her balance still off. On the ground floor she encounters her first hospital employee. He's sitting at the reception desk, his nose in a large medical textbook, possibly sleeping. V hopes he's sleeping. She sinks as low to the floor as she can, creeping past the reception desk on her hands and knees. The receptionist turns a page. V creeps on. The door is within reach. She just has to reach up, push it open, slip out, and run—all of which, incredibly, she is able to manage without attracting the slightest ounce of attention from the man at the desk. It's not until the door clicks shut behind her that he looks up, appraises it curiously, then shrugs and returns to his studying.

So it's a rainy April night in London and V Spektor's standing on the sidewalk in a white knee-length hospital gown, soaked to the bone, with a bloody right hand and a broken bit of a mirror. She can't get back to Hogwarts, and she sure as hell can't stay where she is, so there's really only one option…

The knowledge that her family's home is a crime scene doesn't impact how she pictures the place will be when she arrives that night. Upon approaching, however, it becomes clear that things aren't as they should be. The gate has been chained shut, and she can see through the bars that the windows are boarded, along with the front door. There's another entrance, of course, around the back by the elm tree, which she quickly sets off for, but she's beyond peeved that the lock is there, that anyone dare put a lock on the gate. What right have they to put a lock on the gate?

* * *

The far end of the Slytherin table is dead silent, save for the scraping of fork and knife against china, the chewing and sipping, the shuffle of papers, of feet beneath the table. Tom Riddle takes a few bites of the food on his plate and sets his fork down, unable to stomach much of anything. Lestrange keeps glancing over at him, yet Riddle does not meet his eyes. Instead, his eyes are on the door, until Julia Pembroke enters. Riddle rises abruptly and intercepts Pembroke before she reaches the table.

"I need to ask you something." He says. It might be the first thing he's ever said to Julia.

"What?" Pembroke is stunned. "Um, uh, sure…"

"Not here." He grabs her arm and leads her forcefully from the Great Hall, through the Entrance Hall, and down a passage that leads to the kitchens. Pembroke doesn't put up a fuss, doesn't even _ask_ where he's taking her, she's too nervous.

"What did she say to you that afternoon?" He demands.

"Umm…she said, uh… I don' remember. Nothin important…" Pembroke stammers.

"Something happened. I tried to get it out of Slughorn but he wouldn't…cooperate." Riddle says through clenched teeth, gripping Pembroke's arm tighter. "And nobody else seems to know anything about it. I thought maybe you…"

"Whatcha doin'…hey! Those are my thoughts, get _out_!" She yanks her arm away, which doesn't prevent him from using legillimency but still, at least she can get some distance. She regards the Head Boy—slim and sleepless, left eye twitching—with extreme unease. "Sorry, I mean, I'd tell ya if I knew, really. I'm worried too ya know."

"I don't really care." Riddle says angrily. "But you're right, you don't know anything." And without another word he turns his back on the stocky, red-haired Slytherin girl and stalks off down the corridor.

"Bloody hell," Pembroke mutters, rubbing her arm. "Fuckin' wanker…"

* * *

The padlock, though sturdy, does not bar Victoria's entry to her family's former home, and neither did it keep looters from ransacking the old place, lifting everything that wasn't too conspicuous and leaving hardly anything of monetary value behind. Granted, these must have been muggle looters, because some of the things, including priceless volumes in her father's library, along with trunks full of family photos, correspondence, etc. remained untouched. The hangings had been ripped from the curtain rods, leaving the windows uncomfortably bare. As V sits, cross-legged on the floor of the sitting room, she can see her own reflection, cast by the fire in the grate, upon the glass as she leafed through old letters, newspaper clippings, photographs, and postcards she'd found in an overturned trunk someone had flung down the staircase. Barnaby as a child, holding a quaffle twice this size of his head but just as red. Lucinda and Mrs. Spektor in the garden, both up to their elbows in fresh dirt, with various specimens to be planted scattered about. Mr. and Mrs. Spektor on their wedding day, his grim grin out-shined by her beaming jubilance, gripping her bouquet like it were the triwizard cup. And as she's going through this pile, already resigning herself to the strong possibility that there isn't a single picture of herself in the mix, she finds herself gazing at a much younger version of herself, a mess of long black hair and pale limbs, climbing on top of a statue of an angel, her small hands splayed to cover the angel's eyes. She sets the photograph aside. Then, another, of her and Septimus sitting together on the sofa, cast in shadow, each with their nose buried in their own book, V cross-legged, Septimus with his right ankle resting on his left knee, a cloud of smoke billowing from the pipe clamped between his teeth. She sets this one aside as well. There's a rustling upstairs. Then, was that the tinkling of broken glass? A heavy thud on the floor just above her, possibly from a rock being tossed through one of the windows. She snatches up the two photographs and leaves the rest scattered about the floor. Oh so quietly, made possible by her bare feet, she creeps to the corner and tucks herself inside a cupboard, just in time to watch a few brawny teenage boys crash down the staircase and start casing the stripped place for silver, gold, jewels, whatever they can sell.

* * *

"Starting to regret ever getting involved with that girl now, aren't you Tom?" Lestrange yawns, stretching his arms above his head, then crossing them upon his chest. "You always said you were above that sort of thing anyway."

"I don't regret a thing." Tom's brow is furrowed, eyes on his parchment, re-reading an essay he'd just written.

"Got you all distracted now though, doesn't she. And she ain't even _here_." Lestrange smirks.

"Distracted?" Tom looks up from the essay, his cold eyes meeting Lestrange's.

"With all this worrying about where she's gotten off to, what's happened to her…"

"So you're insinuating that her wellbeing and whereabouts aren't of any importance, I take it. That she hasn't been a significant help to what I'm trying to achieve?" Although he hates to admit it, V is more than just a significant help, she is indispensable.

"Oh, excuse me then — I didn't realize your goals had shifted…" Lestrange laughs.

"There are some people in this world, Lestrange, that are gifted with superior intelligence and skill. Although, seeing as you aren't among them, it might be a bit of a stretch to expect you to recognize excellence in others. To be honest with you, I have been wondering for quite some time why I've allowed you to become so integrally involved with my plans in the first place. Thus far, you've only proven yourself a hinderance." Tom says, dipping his quill into the ink bottle and scratching a few notations at the bottom of the parchment. Lestrange glares at him.

"A _hinderance?_ "

"I am afraid I am no longer in need of your 'support'."

"You can't kick me out of the knights! I'm a founding member. I'm…to be honest with _you_ , I'm one of the only friends you've got in this whole bloody castle."

"I am afraid it is just too much of a risk to continue to associate with someone so, how should I put it…delusional…" Tom casually scratches another note.

"That's it." Lestrange pounds the table, upsetting the ink bottle all over Tom's nearly finished essay. His words now drowning in a sea of slick black, Tom carefully sets his quill out of reach of the spill and draws his wand from his pocket. Lestrange's face is beet-red as he scrambles to his feet, trying to put as much distance as possible between him and Riddle. He's not quick enough, and within seconds, the grimy Slytherin boy is writhing in agony upon the common room floor, his former 'friend' standing over him.

"That's it." Riddle mocks, and lets Lestrange enjoy a few more moments of intense physical pain before lifting the cruciartis curse from him.

"I'm…I'm…sorr-"

"I'm done here. And I believe it would be in your best interest, Lestrange, to stay out of my way." And with that, Tom gathers his books and quill, and stalks off to his dormitory, leaving Lestrange lying on the floor.

* * *

The next morning at breakfast an owl drops a newspaper on Tom's plate, nearly toppling his goblet of pumpkin juice onto his lap. He picks up the thing and regards it with skeptical curiosity, as it is not only a muggle newspaper, but, upon reading the date, one from December 31, 1926. He glances quickly at the students around him before casually unfurling the paper, flipping through it's yellowed pages for some sort of clue to explain why someone sent him this. But his puzzlement only lasts a brief moment before it dawns on him—of course he knows who it's from. Who else? On page six there's an article about a wealthy young man from Little Hangleton who had engaged in a scandalous relationship with a poor villager, and how the girl claims she is pregnant with his child. Scratched in red ink in the margin next to the article is a question mark, followed by a series of numbers.

"Is that a _muggle_ newspaper?" Avery asks through a mouthful of toast.

"Seems like it. Someone's idea of a joke, most likely." Tom says cooly, folding the paper and shoving it into his bag.

"So Malfoy's in. A bit curious as to why Lestrange is no longer involved, but I told him to mind his own business."

"Good." Tom nods stiffly and returns his attention to his breakfast.


	28. II: Comrades in Arms

A/N: Hello again everyone! Hope you're all enjoying your summers. I just wanted to give a shout-out to AvalonTheLadyKiller (whose review's no joke got me blushing like mad), Garden Gnomie, a. , 1000ships, waistedyouth, and revinzy for your kind words & encouragement. I'm Grinning. Thank you for following, favoriting, reviewing, and reading! ;)

* * *

XXVIII  
Comrades in Arms  
[London | April 1944]

* * *

Shoved in the back of a musty automobile, V Spektor's knees are up in her nostrils, her hospital gown traded in for a white linen dress, childish and innocent, trying with little success not to inhale the nasty mixture of odors trapped in the cabin of the vehicle. A little weed smoke, a hint of manure, more than a fair share of grain alcohol, all with a greasy mutton undertone. She's sharing the upholstered bench seat with two men and a woman, the men in olive drab, Americans judging by their accents, and the woman in a sundress splattered with red poppies, her auburn hair done up in curls, fake pearls strung around her thick neck. The wheels catch a pothole. The car lurches. V's elbow and shoulder careen into the American soldier beside her.

"Where didja say you're goin' again sweetheart?" He belches, his hand coming down hard on her thigh.

"Little Hangleton." V says, grimacing at the blast of rancid breath sprayed in her direction. "To visit my family."

"Ah good ol' mom and dad. Haven't seen my family in ages, myself. Hell, I wonder if they'll even remember me after all this is over." He squeezes her knee.

"Oh they'll remember you alright, buddy boy. Who could forget a face like that!" The American's buddy, Richie, pinches his cheek, already ruddy from the booze and the crisp spring air.

"So you're from America?" V asks, hoping to get him off on a tangent, to distract him with himself.

"New York. The big Apple. Boy the girls back home don't compare to you London ladies though, I gotta say. Just look at those _cheekbones_, those _lips_." He leans in to kiss her. She allows it, begrudgingly. "Those _eyes_. Boy howdy, never seen girl with eyes like yours before." He blinks. She doesn't.

"Must not've seen too many girls." V smirks.

"Found a feisty one, Ty. Hah! Lil' spitfire." Richie wraps his arm around his girl, the one in the poppy patterned sundress. V imagines her name is Bertha. Maybe Ethel.

"Seen plenty girls." Tyrone furrows his brow, pouts. "But you sure take the cake. Say what're your folks like?"

"Oh they're alright." V shrugs. "Bit snobby, really, but with as much money as they've got, I guess how could they not be, right?"

"Ahh I see. Heh heh Daddy's little rich girl, sneaking off to London looking for some fun… Don't worry, I always make a good impression on the folks." Tyrone slides in for another kiss. Sloppy. V smiles devilishly, shifts her knees, loops one ankle around his, pivoting to get better body contact.

The car trundles on, leaving the city in it's thick grey sun-choking exhaust, lurching now along a road snaking through the English countryside. With every bump, with every turn and lurch, V contemplates how long she can keep this snagging session up until she succumbs the urge to vomit. But thankfully Little Hangleton is not as far as she thought it was, and soon the car is slowing to a creaky halt.

"Oh say now, you're not really going to leave are you? We were just getting to know each other!" Tyrone whines when V pulls away.

"If I don't get home before supper my dad's literally going to murder me." She says, frowning, all apologies.

"I could do for some supper. Got a spare seat for a comrade in arms?" He smiles slyly.

"You get out here, you're on your own Tyrone." Richie says. "None of us got time to wait around for you."

"Go on then. I'll hitch with the next convoy coming through. See you in Newcastle, Rich. I've got my future in-laws to meet." Tyrone jumps out, cocky smile branded on his pudgy freckled face. V grabs his hand playfully and yanks him along. _Great. Fucking great. I just wanted a ride. How am I gonna get rid of this guy now?_ They walk down the main street. V didn't think this through. She has no idea where the Riddle house is.

"Fancy a drink?" She doesn't wait for a response before dragging him in the direction of the local pub, the Crow and Crown. Pushing through the doors, the pair is soaked with a roar of noise.

"Long live the Queen!" Tyrone shouts. Nobody hears him. They approach the bar and Tyrone orders a pint of beer and a shot of whiskey. "And a pint for the lady as well." He says. The bartender slaps two pints in front of the pair, and then a whiskey. While Tryone occupies himself with his cups, V turns her attention to the rest of the occupants of the bar. She tells Tyrone she'll be right back, under the pretense that she's headed to the lavatory, and slips in a the opposite end of the bar. The bartender comes over, not recognizing her from just a moment ago.

"What'll it be?" He croaks.

"Oh, nothing for me. Actually, I had a question for you. See, I'm a reporter, undercover, from the Daily Mirror in London. I was wondering if you had any information on the tragedy that befell the Riddle family. They lived in this town, didn't they?"

"Oh, them. Yes, they were very prominent. Big deal, the Riddles were. Lots of money. Big house just beyond the field there. Not very nice, but then again, they didn't need to be nice, did they? Strange business over there at that house."

"Strange?"

"They still don't know how they died. Murdered, obviously. But how?" He leans across the bar, drops his voice to a hoarse whisper. "I hear it's haunted. But that's just the kids say that, of course."

"I was thinking about going over to check it out. The house, I mean." V says, batting her eyelashes.

"I think the groundskeeper's still there. You might want to ask him some questions, I'm sure he knows more than any of these lot. Just don't go after dark, is my advice." He says. "Good luck." V smiles, thanks him, slips back into the crowd, and rejoins Tyrone, already halfway through his pint and sliding off his stool. He holds his glass out to her. She picks up hers, and they clink.

"Cheers, sweetheart." He slurs.

"Drink up." She says, tipping back her glass.

* * *

The sun's sinking low into the hazy fog collecting on the horizon, gathering it's soft white condensation around the budding trees, sleepy homes, and neatly-trimmed hedges of Little Hangleton. V Spektor and Tyrone Walters wind their way through the field that the bartender had mentioned just about an hour before. The mansion looms large in the distance, all the windows dark, and a little carriage house down the slope, a single window lit, smoke pluming from the skinny, crooked chimney. The way they're approaching, the chances of the groundskeeper noticing them is slim, as long as they keep quiet and don't make any sudden movements.

"Why are we going around the back?" Tyrone slurs.

"My parents don't like using the front door. They prefer that the kitchen entrance is used." V lies in whispers, pulling him along, still not sure what she's going to do with him. She pulls out her wand when he's not looking and mutters _alohamora_. The door creaks open and she slips in, Tyrone on her heels.

"Looks like nobody's home." He says, his head swiveling round, eyes taking in the odd, empty grandeur of the place.

"Hm. Strange. They must've gone out." She says, flicking on the light switches. None of them work. In the dim light she can see Tyrone's face slowly falling. He's coming to some sort of realization, noticing the dust, the furniture covered in yellowed white sheets, the stale smell of the place.

"You don't live here, do you?" He says, dead serious.

"No. No, I don't." V says, taking out her wand. She steps towards him. He backs away.

"Listen sweetheart, I got nothin' to steal. Nothin on me but my ration cards and a pack of cigs. That's all, I swear." Tyrone puts up his hands.

"I'm not interested in ration cards." She says, flicking her wand. _Petrificus totalis_. His body becomes rigid as a board, his eyes wide and bulging, scared out of his skull. "Or you at all, really." She frowns. "Although, this place could use a good cleaning…" She walks up close to him, slips her thin fingers inside his breast pocket, tugs out his crumpled pack of Marlboros, sticks one between her lips, lights it with his lighter, takes a long drag. She flicks her wand again and he relaxes.

"What'd you just…how'd you…?" Tyrone babbles. She plucks the cigarette from her lips, pinches it between her fingers, and plants a kiss on poor confused, drunk Tyrone.

"What do you know about magic, Tyrone?" She asks, a sinister smile curling her lips.

"M-m-agic?" Tyrone stutters. "Magic's not real. That's fake. Kid stuff."

"Kid stuff?" She kisses him again, wrapping her hand around his lower back, tucking it into the band of his trousers. She feels a stirring, an arousal.

"Wait, how old are you anyways?" Tyrone asks, slightly panicked.

"Old enough." V smirks. With a flick of her wand, his hands are bound behind his back. Tyrone is torn between intense arousal and crippling fear.

* * *

Under cover of night, concealed by the broad black expanse of an umbrella, Tom Riddle approaches his father's house. The rain careens from the troubled sky, rumbling off the roof, pooling in turbulent pockets of stone, leaking in frantic rivulets down the walkway. Tom lifts the knocker and lets it fall quietly, his other hand on his wand, ready for anything. Or so he thought. Not exactly ready for a muggle, an American soldier, to answer the door.

"How can I help you?" He says in a thick New York accent, his eyes glazed.

"Um…I don't know?" Tom says, taken aback. "Depends on who you are."

"Private Tyrone Walters." He says, extending his hand. Tom does not shake it, and instead lets it hang there, outstretched, open, waiting.

"Tom Riddle." Tom says, shifting his eyes, trying to peer into the dark corridor behind Private Tyrone Walter, whose body took up quite a bit of space.

"Come in. Please." Tyrone backs away, welcoming Tom into his family's home.

"Um. Thanks." Tom says, breezing past him, over the threshold and into the darkness within. His shoes squeak upon the polished floors. There's a fire in the grate in the living room. A dark figure, cast in shadows, slowly turns to face him.

"Well it's about time." Victoria Spektor's voice drifts towards him across the room. "Was beginning to think you didn't get my owl."

"You couldn't possibly have been more cryptic." Tom laughs coldly, striding toward her. "I see you've made yourself comfortable. Effectively taken over my dead father's house, got yourself a personal slave…"

"Oh, Tyrone? He's just…lost his way." V waves her hand, dismissing the upsetting notion of slavery, even though at that very moment she has Private Tyrone Walters under the influence of the Imperious curse. "I needed some help. This place was a mess." She picks up on Tom's tone immediately, one of annoyance, of disapproval, of great skepticism. And yet, he could not hide that smile, that lightness of step as he approaches.

"I like what you've done with it." Tom stands in front of V, looking down at her. "It suits you." She pats the space next to her. He fits himself beside her. "I was worried, you know. You just disappeared."

"I contacted you as soon as I could. I was in St. Mungo's for a while…actually I'm not even sure exactly how long. Almost died and all that. But no big deal. I tried to stay at my house, you know, my parent's place, but it wasn't safe. I figured this place would be available…"

"No need to ask permission. Just take whatever you want." Tom drips sarcasm.

"I figured you wouldn't mind…I mean it's not like it's _yours_ either…" V says, batting her eyelashes. "But I can leave, go somewhere else."

"You're not coming back to Hogwarts then?" Cold, with a hint of sadness.

"I really don't think that's a smart idea. Do you?"

"Maybe not. I've heard some talk…"

"From our good friend Avery?" V laughs.

"Not exactly." Tom frowns, moves closer, casts a sharp look over his shoulder. Private Tyrone Walters is lurking in the background, watching. "A little privacy, please?"

"Tyrone, go to sleep." V says.

Tyrone swivels on his heels, marching upstairs. Tom now casts V a sharp look.

"Oh don't act like you've never done the imperious curse." V shrugs. "Anyway, as you were saying…"

"People are talking about you. That's all." Tom says, shifting his weight, folding his arms. "Not the best things, but what do you expect?"

"I never expect anything. That's how I keep from being disappointed." She smiles wide, toothy. "What are your thoughts on Slughorn?"

"What? Why?" Tom narrows his eyes.

"Wasn't looking so great the last time I saw him. Seemed upset about something." V lies, shrugging her shoulders. "What's eating him, I wonder…"

"Probably realizes he never should've talked to us about horcruxes." Tom says, thinking about it more carefully now. "Now that you mention it, he has been keeping himself out of the way. Not his usual congenial self. That's interesting…"

"Makes sense. Wouldn't want the head boy turning you in for talking about something like that." V says, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. A silence builds between them.

"You almost died?" Tom says, unfolding his arms, placing a hand atop hers. "That must've been frightening." He speaks in his customary monotone, a hint of petulant sarcasm playing about his lips.

"Terrifying." She smiles coyly.

"I'm sure you're traumatized right and proper."

"Without a doubt." She laces her fingers through his.

"In need of some comforting, I imagine." He leans closer, planting small kisses up the slope of her neck.

"In the worst way." Her eyes flash, her lips meet his, and the strange tension that had been building between them quickly dissipates. Tom practically leaps on top of her, as though every second spent parted from her had truly been agony, and the reunion the great cleanse, wiping all that unpleasantness from history. A great lust, a powerful, intense longing. She tightens, the sinews of her muscles contracting in excitement, bracing for the impact of his forceful affection. What a brightness in his eyes, a quickness to the breath that is exchanged with hers. He smells the same, so comfortably the same. The fire crackles. Their clothing rustles. Two loud thumps on the wood floor as Tom's shoes are kicked off. Rain pelts the glass hidden behind the thick brocade drapery.


	29. II: The Triple Agent Blinks Thrice

.

Chapter XXIX  
The Triple Agent Blinks Thrice  
[Malfoy Manor | March 1995]

* * *

The lids of V's eyes snap open at the first light of dawn, a creeping chill snaking it's way down her spine. There's a fog upon the glass, and outside the world is nestled in a cold grey calm, and she inside, burrows deeper beneath the plush comforter, the crisp sheets, the extra blanket she's dragged from the linen closet. Beside her she feels the cool smooth skin of her husband, his breath rising and falling stiffly, rhythmically. Strange, to watch him sleep like this. Strange, she thinks, to see him now in this sort of situation. She tries to close her eyes again, to fall back to sleep, but instead a reel of images begins to play upon the insides of her eyelids.

A tall cathedral, steeply pitched roof shingled with slate, walls stacked high with ancient weathered stone, vines climbing like snakes, sunlight streaming through the stained glass. A brilliance inside, the light reflecting off of every surface, a prism of color and luminescence. The bell tolls. The air shimmers. It is moist, green, and pleasantly warm.

 _Click_

Moonlight on the surface of an impossibly still stretch of ocean. Air choked with salt and silence. A large black bird crosses the moon, flying west, wings fixed, an easy effortless motion. Beneath the water there is a shift and the color darkens with the sky.

 _Click_

A red curtain, parted slightly, billowing as though hung in front of an open window. Shadows drip, a slow leaking honey-thick darkness, down along the fabric. A quick shallow breathing, echoing from every corner of a vast, unknowable room.

 _Click_

The well-worn deck of a tall ship, white sails catching the storm-fed wind, forging northward. A blood-stained blade skitters into the light as the ship is tossed by a sizable wave. A sharp cry cracks the sky.

 _Click_

She cuts the film, retracts the screen back up into her skull, and brings her eyes to focus on the room surrounding her. The elegant floral wallpaper. The mahogany mantle over the fireplace. The damask drapery hanging atop the four-poster she's buried in. She props herself up on an elbow and nudges her husband, jostling him awake. Immediately his mouth forms a frown, his brow furrowing, eyes opening just enough to squint at her in the dim morning light.

"What?" He hisses. Noticing her concern, he decides it appropriate to ask "Is something wrong?"

"Couldn't sleep." She shrugs, ruffling the long dark hair cascading down her shoulders, falling luxuriously over her breasts. Her skin appears almost opalescent. "Was thinking…"

"That's never a good sign." He says. She kicks him.

"About our wedding." She finishes.

"How romantic." He smiles sarcastically.

"Oh stop. You remember the place, right? That cathedral. In Iceland."

"How could I forget? It was one of the most beautiful places I've ever been." He says, oddly sentimental.

"Yeah. Me too." She says, leaning back down into her pillow. "Sometimes that all feels unreal. That I dreamed it some long night in my cell. You know, that it was some other life, forever ago." She rolls over to face him. "Sometimes I wonder…"

"And what do you wonder, you strange strange girl?"

"Are we who we were?" She searches beneath the covers for his hand, finds it, and places hers atop it lightly. His skin prickles, shoots up with goosebumps. "Despite the obvious physical differences…" She fixes her eyes on where his nose should be. "We really haven't changed much at all."

"You certainly haven't." He says definitively, drawing her closer. Strange how she's no longer repulsed by him, his weird new body, his harsh cold voice. He kisses her forehead. "Except for these. You didn't have all these wrinkles." He pulls the covers down to reveal her arm, and traces the tattoo upon her forearm with a long slender finger. She flinches, it tickles.

"Everyone thinks I'm a death eater." She smiles.

"You can be one, if you want. I'll have to think it over of course, but I think you might qualify."

"Oh you think I might qualify do you?" She rolls her eyes.

"You're still the most talented witch I've ever met." He says, seriously now.

"Wow that's such a big complement, coming from you." V says, "And you're comparing me to who? That Bellatrix girl?"

"Hah! She's a child compared to you."

"Yes. She is. Quite literally."

"Victoria please, the last thing I want to talk about now is Bellatrix Lestrange." He says, kissing her to prevent her from continuing on. Of course she has no complaints—the mere thought of the girl pisses her off. She loses herself in his kiss, enjoying his undivided attention, the pressure of his body on hers, the familiar smell of his skin. He's enveloped in her lush morning beauty, her freshly awakened eyes blinking up at him, her tender lips moist and inviting.

Then, a knock at the door. Then rapid-fire knocking, frantic and tense. The door swings open and Lucius stumbles in.

"Sir. My Lord. There's been a…" He catches himself. "Sorry. I. Didn't mean to… Please forgive me. I'll just…" Lord Voldemort looks slowly over his shoulder. Lucius is disintegrating under his glare.

"You'll tell me what's got you so concerned." Voldemort says cooly, shifting himself, pulling up the covers to better conceal himself and his wife.

"I…uh…Sorry I…just got word that Yaxley and Carrow have been captured by the uh…the Ministry and…they leaked information….one of them did…and they're sending officials over….quite soon….most likely…." Lucius stammers, his voice quavering, catching breaths between every other word, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Thank you for alerting us. Now, I suggest you tidy up. Don't want to leave a bad impression on the Ministry, do you?" Voldemort says.

"No. Of course not. Is there anything else I should do?" Lucius says quickly, before immediately shoving his foot in his mouth.

"Actually…" V says, but Voldemort cuts her off.

"No." He says firmly. "You can _leave_." Lucius scrambles out the door, shutting it loudly behind him. Voldemort glares at his wife.

"What?" She looks up at him coyly. "He was offering assistance." But she can't keep a straight face for long. "He looked like he was going to cry." She laughs.

"I'm sure he's crying right now." Voldemort kisses her breast. She wraps her slender legs around his back. "Now where were we…" 

* * *

The Malfoys are all gathered in the kitchen. Lucius paces behind the table as his wife Narcissa picks at her soft boiled egg and Draco helps himself to another strip of bacon. Although the room has just been used to prepare food, it is devoid of any food smells, any comforting aromas. At the sound of footsteps descending the staircase, Lucius stiffens. The tea kettle starts to whistle and Dobby scrambles to retrieve it. Not fast enough, he receives a whack on the back with Lucius' cane, making the house elf stumble and spill some hot water on his poor little feet. He winces in double pain. At the first sight of shadows on the threshold, Lucius jumps into another apology.

"So sorry again, My Lord. I didn't mean to…" Lucius carries on.

"What an inconvenience. Yaxley and Carrow captured on the day we planned to hold our largest meeting yet. I suppose it's more well-guarded than we expected…" Voldemort says, walking straight past Lucius, taking a seat at the table. V glides in beside him and sits next to Draco. Dobby wobbles over and pours her a cup of tea.

"Thank you, Dobby." She says. A great collective movement as every head in the room swivels to stare at her. "What?" She blinks. Dobby drops the tea pot.

"Such a strange girl." Voldemort smirks, shaking his head.

"We don't have much time. You can use the tunnel in the basement…" Lucius says, still pacing.

"Why don't you sit down, Lucius. You're making me anxious." V says. He sits immediately. She winks. He blushes full scarlet.

"Contact Severus and tell him we'll be arriving at his home shortly." Voldemort says, looking neither at Lucius nor V, instead buttering a piece of toast.

"Is the meeting off then?" V asks, looking from Voldemort to Lucius.

"We'll have to alert everyone. Tell them our location has been compromised." Narcissa says. Lucius nods.

"Wait. No. No need to go anywhere." V says, placing down her cup of tea delicately in its saucer. "I'll speak with them."

"You?" Lucius stops pacing.

"Yes." Voldemort agrees. "She'll speak with them." He doesn't look up, continues to butter his toast. Takes a bite. The room has fallen silent. V's slightly shocked, but not as shocked as everyone else. He still trusts her. Clearly that's what this is. Sure, she'll take it. 

* * *

Another knock, now on the front door, a mere fifteen minutes later. Breakfast has been cleared from the kitchen table, and V sits with Draco, stirring her tea absently with a long silver spoon, as he scribbles on parchment. A large book lays open before them. A single candle illuminates their work. There's a rustle in the hall, the opening and closing of a door, hushed voices, and then louder ones. Dobby patters in to the kitchen, with Kingsley Shacklebolt and Cornelius Fudge in tow.

"Miss Spektor? Fancy seeing you here." Cornelius Fudge remarks, pushing his way past Kingsley.

"Hmm? Yes, likewise." V yawns without looking at him, stirring the spoon counterclockwise.

"You don't live here." Fudge says, fumbling around with his thoughts, attempting to collect them.

"No. No I don't. And neither do you." V sleepily looks up, squinting at him in the dim morning light. She yawns again and raises her hand to cover her mouth, the black stone set in her gold ring glinting in the candle's reflection. "Is there something…wrong? Did something happen to Lucius and Narcissa?"

"I was about to ask you that." Fudge says. Kingsley steps forward, eyeing V suspiciously.

"Do you have any information as to where Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy are?" Kingsley asks. He knows she does. He knows she's up to something.

"They left for a weekend holiday and asked me to look after Draco and the house. I agreed, naturally, seeing as the boy is in desperate need of tutoring in my subject, and in potions, and…" Draco glares at V, then puts his nose back in the book.

"I didn't know you were friends with the Malfoys." Fudge says, peering around as if expecting to see someone hiding in a dark corner, under the table, behind a door slightly ajar.

"With Narcissa, yes. I knew her mother, Druella. Wicked, but funny as hell. Came up with the best nicknames. And by best I mean…worst…"

"Yes yes, very well." Fudge mutters dismissively and draws his wand. V takes a sip of her tea. "I'm sure you know Carrow and Yaxley too, no doubt."

"I know _of_ them, sure." V peers over the rim of her teacup.

"They were caught breaking in to the Ministry early this morning, attempting to gain access to one of our departments. Interestingly enough, once captured and interrogated, they mentioned that there was a meeting to be held here, at Malfoy Manor, later today."

"Meeting? Yaxley and Carrow? Here?" She looks at Draco.

"Boy would you stop with that scratching. It's distracting." Fudge orders offhand and Draco hastily drops the quill. Ink spatters his parchment. "Yes, a meeting. A meeting of _death eaters_." In a spasm of laughter, V sprays tea all over Fudge's waistcoat. He regards her with a look of surprise and mild mortification.

"What is this? Some kind of a _joke_?" V places the teacup back in its saucer with a clink. "And you mean to tell me you're here to do…what again?"  
"Well, we're here to…" Fudge looks at Kingsley Shacklebolt, who's helped himself to a cup of tea. He shrugs.

"This was your idea, Minister. I still don't know what you expected to find here. Well, not _this_ , but…I don't see why we're wasting these people's time. It's not like we have a warrant to search the place. The owners aren't even here." Kingsley says.

"Shhhh she doesn't know that." Fudge mutters under his breath, teeth clenched. "Yes, well. We're all a little on high-alert at the Ministry because of what the Potter boy is claiming…"

"I thought you didn't believe any of that rubbish…" V says. "Or is the _Daily Prophet_ lying? Because it has been known to do that…"

"Um." Fudge pauses, unsure how to respond. "No. Of course, I'm not claiming I _believe_ that You-Know-Who is back. I just thought…"

"Mr. Shacklebolt, how much longer are you and your companion planning on spending with us? Because I do have better things to do, and I sure hope you do too." V says, ignoring the sweating lump of authority and confusion in front of her.

"We're just going to take a quick look around." Fudge declares, starting to stride into the dining room.

"I'm afraid I can't consent to that, seeing as this is not my house. If you really have your heart set on searching the Malfoys' home, I suggest you come back when they're here, and with a search warrant." V's voice is strong, definitive. Fudge buckles.

"Right right yes I think that would be best. No need really to search the house. Lucius is an upstanding employee at the Ministry. With such a lovely wife. And a nice child." He looks at Draco with a simpering smile. "No need. I…apologize for my intrusion. Blame it on my lack of sleep. Getting less and less of it it seems, you know."

"What a shame." V says. "That must be rough for you."

"Oh it is, but I make due. Got a whole Ministry to oversee, don't I? No sleeping on _my_ job heh heh. Well, I won't keep you, we'll just be on our way. Give the Malfoys my regards."

"Surely." V says, rising from the table to show them out. At the door, Kingsley pauses and locks eyes with her. She blinks three times. He nods. 

* * *

V hears the deep breathing behind her and suspects who it might be before the shrill voice even exits the witch's mouth.

"Bellatrix Lestrange." V says, stopping in the upper hall but not turning around. "You're following me."

"Yes. Yes I am. I wanted to talk." She says shrilly, cocking her head back. Her stance indicates someone unsure of themselves, yet knowing exactly how she wants to project herself and be perceived by others. V turns around, folds her arms.

"Ok. Talk." V leans casually against the wall, bored already.

"Um. Well. So there's just this little thing that's been bothering me, you know. Just a little thing that I've been wondering. Just who the hell _are_ you?"

"Right. We haven't been introduced. My name is Victoria Spektor." She holds out her hand mechanically.

"Uh yeah I know that much." Bellatrix rolls her eyes.

"You're not going to shake my hand?" V asks, smiling. The frazzled witch takes V's hand, grips it with all the strength she's got, almost breaking her bones.

"Nice to meet you." Bellatrix says through gritted teeth.

"Is it really?" V ponders aloud. Bellatrix narrows her eyes.

"You're just complicating things, you know." Bellatrix says. "Things were working out much better before you got here."

"Oh. I see." V says, a glimmer of realization sparking deep within those dark eyes. She smiles slyly, placing a hand on her hip. "I'm sure they were. For you."

"Don't look at me like that." Bellatrix shakes her head, averting her eyes. A chill invades her.

"You're married to Lestrange's boy, right? Hm. Wonder if he's anything like his father…"

"What are you implying?" Bellatrix huffs.

"Nothing." V grins. "You're a little tense, dear. You should try and relax. More of that deep breathing aught to do the trick."

"Still haven't told me who you are." Bellatrix places her hands on her hips, annoyed.

"Half-blood. Grew up in London. Went to Hogwarts. Sorted into Slytherin. Dropped out my seventh year. Traveled the world. Got married. Got arrested. Spent the rest of my life in Azkaban. Now I'm here." V rattles off the events in her life like she's reading a grocery list.

"Half-blood." Bellatrix spits. "Never heard the name Spektor before."

"I'm the last one. My brother changed his name to Weasely. You'll know of him, maybe. Barnaby Weasely. Worked in the Ministry. Still does probably, come to think of it…" V loses herself in thought for a moment, then continues. "You never heard about what happened to my family?"

"Um, no. Why would I?"

"It was a pretty big deal when it happened. Hm. Guess it was a long time ago. People forget." V says, looking at Bellatrix but not really _looking_ at her. She shakes herself out of the reverie she's fallen through.

"How old are you even, anyway?" Bellatrix tosses her dark curly hair around.

"Don't be rude, Bellatrix." Voldemort's voice reaches the two of them as he climbs the staircase.

"My Lord. I did not intend…"

"My Lord?" V snorts. Bellatrix's eyes widen in shock.

"Victoria." Voldemort chides, approaching her, taking her hand. "I want to speak with you and Severus." She nods. Once close enough, she tilts her head up and gives him a quick kiss. Glancing back over her shoulder, Bellatrix is red and fuming. V winks at the girl, fueling the jealous fire that's just ignited inside the witch with the wild hair. 


	30. II: Best Laid Plans

A/N: Hello again, it's been a while. I'm neck deep in the fall semester so updates will be few and far between (not like I'm saying anything you haven't already gathered...) but I'm taking a well-deserved break from studying to do a little work on this story. Thanks for sticking with it, and reviewing, following, favoriting, and all that! Enough of my nonsense...let's get on with it...

* * *

Chapter XXX  
Best Laid Plans  
[Hogwarts | April 1995]

* * *

"Quit it Draco, I mean it!" Neville Longbottom's hauling a large sack full of herbs and plants up from the greenhouse. After spending the last three hours labeling and bundling them, he's bringing them to Professor Snape to be stored as potion ingredients. Part of the duties of the research assistant position he's taken up with Professor Sprout. Draco Malfoy, flanked as always by Crabbe and Goyle, are having a go at the bag, effectually undoing all the tedious work he'd just finished.

"You know, you should get yourself some friends, Longbottom. Because the fact that _this_ is what you do with your spare time is pretty pathetic." Draco Malfoy drawls, raising a bunch of lavender up to his nose. "Mmmm smells lovely." He flings it at him. Crabbe and Goyle strike up their buffoonish laughter.

"You're out of your fucking mind." An angry, gravelly voice echoes around the corridor, accompanied by the clicking of heels.

"I can't." Another voice. Tired.

"Shhhh." Draco turns to Crabbe and Goyle, putting his finger to his lips. Neville's shoving plants back into the burlap sack.

"It's about _him_. He should know. If you don't talk to him, I will."

"You'll do no such thing. Victoria, I know this is something you can't understand, but…"

"Don't you dare tell me what I can and cannot understand." Victoria Spektor retorts, "You don't know a damn thing…" V Spektor and Albus Dumbledore turn the corner, and suddenly fall silent upon seeing the boys in the hall.

"And what do we have here?" Dumbledore congenially regards the boys, looking from Draco to Neville.

"We were just admiring Neville's plants." Draco says. "He's got names for them and everything." Crabbe and Goyle snicker. Neville blushes. Professor Spektor steps forward, kneels down, and helps Neville pick up the rest of the bundles. She pauses, the lavender bunch in her hand, brings it up to her nose, and inhales deeply.

"Keep it." Neville says, when goes to tuck it into the sack. By the time she regains full height, he's already halfway down the hall, legs working quickly away. V holds the bunch of lavender back under her nose, breathes in again, turns to Dumbledore, and smiles.

"Your office or mine?" says Spektor.

"Um. Professor?" Draco clears his throat. V looks at him blankly. "I, uh, was wondering, if you have a moment, if I could talk to you…about the assignment…"

"Assignment? Yes. Sorry, Albus this will only take a minute." V extends her hand for Draco to take. He hesitantly takes it, her skin cold as ice.

"Fine." Dumbledore says with a sigh. "Don't keep me waiting." V whisks Draco off down the corridor towards her office. They do not speak until the door is closed firmly behind them. She perches on the edge of her desk, allowing Draco to take the chair.

"You're afraid." She says. The boy's face crumbles before her, his pale eyes brimming with a shimmer of tears.

"I…well…yes and, I'm pretty sure you're _not_ the person I should tell this to, but…" Yes, isn't it odd Draco's about to confide in Professor Spektor? But it's not a spur of the moment thing, not at all. He's been dying to talk to her, but there's never been a good moment. Odd, perhaps, considering who she is, but he's just got this feeling, this itch in the back of his skull, that he needs to talk to her about this. He needs her to be on his side. Or he needs to be on her side. Or however that works.

"Oh don't worry, I'm very good at keeping secrets." She grins a little too widely.

"I just…feel very pressured, by my father, by…" He gulps, "You-know-who…and I know I'm capable but I'm _a kid_ and…while I may hate the Potter kid's guts, he is my classmate and all, and I… I dunno. I dunno what I'm trying to say."

"You're afraid." She pats him on the shoulder, lets her hand rest there, heavy and cold. "It's ok to be afraid. When I was your age, a little older actually, I was very afraid. And I had nobody to talk to about it." She removes her hand, reaches for the practically empty bottle of firewhisky beneath her desk, and unstoppers it, offering it to the boy with the shaky hands and parchment-white face. He takes it. He's been taught to always take what's offered to him.

"Really?" He takes a very small sip of the whiskey. It burns his throat, but he tries with all his might not to cough.

"You can talk to me. But you should also talk to your mother. She'll understand." V takes the bottle back and finishes it off. "Sometimes, when we're trying to survive, we align ourselves with the wrong people out of convenience. I wouldn't want you to do that."

"Wait, are you saying…" Draco starts. V places a finger to his lips.

"I think you know what I mean. Now, I have to see your headmaster. Wouldn't want to keep the great Albus Dumbledore waiting." The sarcasm in V's voice doesn't help Draco parse out the truth at all. But the whiskey's going to his eyes now, and he feels drowsy and much calmer. They part ways at the staircase, V ascending to the Headmaster's Office, Draco slumping down in to the dungeons, to begin a night of restless sleep and troubled dreams.

* * *

"See, I can keep promises." V Spektor barges through the door, only to find the Headmaster's Office empty except for the Fawkes, the phoenix perched by the window. The bird's eyes follow her as she strides across the room. She's never been in here alone before, and she takes full advantage of the situation by poking her nose into every cabinet and drawer, scanning the books on the bookshelves, and surveying the wide array of weird whirring instruments Dumbledore's displayed around the room. There's a calm in the air. The instruments tick contentedly. The afternoon light lays upon the carpet, the desk, the chairs, like a warm blanket casually discarded. Above her, the ceiling spirals up and up, and the eyes look down from portraits of headmasters past. She begins to pace. That's probably what Dumbledore does, she thinks. Pace around his study. How scholarly. How old-mannish. She puts her finger to her lip, ponders, paces, counts her steps. A memory barges it's way into her thinkspace, the one with her sitting across from Dippet after that fiasco with the cave. She remembers the Ministry official, Hardscrabble or something, who happened to show up just at the right moment, and brought her to the courtrooms down on Level 9. How he sat above her, barking questions at her, while she, strapped in a wooden chair with iron restraints, a harsh light beating down on her, squinted up at him, claiming innocence of course, that she never should have left her sister alone, but that's the worst she did. Just an ordinary irresponsible teenager, out for a walk with her boyfriend.

Fawkes ruffles his feathers.

They want to get into the Department of Mysteries. Badly. That's the deal. The Big Plan. She _also_ wants to get into the Department of Mysteries, but for different reasons. Dumbledore absolutely would not want that to happen, on either front. This is going to be difficult. How to play both sides of the fence and balance straight down the middle… She takes a seat in Dumbledore's chair, sinking back, admiring the comfort, the luxury. Against her better judgement, she puts her feet up on his desk and reclines. So much for not keeping him waiting. She opens a drawer to her right and takes out a small tin, pops the lid, and places a lemon drop on her tongue.

Suddenly the door springs open and Severus Snape enters, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees V Spektor lounging behind the Headmaster's desk.

"What happened?" He says, breathless.

"Something happened?" V says, sucking on the lemon candy.  
"You tell me. What the hell are you doing?" Snape remains in the doorway. V takes her feet down from the desk.

"Waiting for Dumbledore." She stands. "I've been here for almost an hour now."

"How'd you get in here?"

"Trade secret." V says, not meeting his eyes. She can't tell him how she's got a gift for entering locked spaces. "Calm down. What are you so anxious to see him about?"

"Potter. He's gone." Snape's face has bleached white. He stumbles forward, takes a seat. V returns to the headmaster's chair.

"Gone? Where would he _go_?" Spektor frowns. "You don't think…"

"I think he's been baited." Snape says. "It had been discussed…"

"Yes, but not _yet_." She says, anger seething beneath her calm tone. "We're not ready. Nothing's ready yet. I told him to wait…" Snape notices that V's clenching her fists. "Fucking _bastard_. Is this some kind of bloody test or what?"

"I…don't know what you're talking about…" Snape looks at her nervously, then away, up at the portraits, all peering down at them, listening in.

"Yeah. You're right. Potter was baited. And I'm fucking livid." She growls.

The door opens again, and this time it's Albus Dumbledore, looking unusually concerned as he sees his own office already occupied.

"Where the bloody hell have you been?" V Spektor barks, standing behind his desk, hands gripping the top, leaning over like a hawk poised to strike.

"Professor Spektor. I believe this is still my office, is it not?" Albus Dumbledore says, in his customary neutral manner, walking towards the desk. "Professor Snape. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

"No. Don't." Spektor orders. Snape shuts up, looks at her with raised eyebrows. "I've been waiting here for over an hour now for you to stroll in. And what's more, Potter's gone, apparently. You _lost_ Potter."

"Harry Potter? He's missing?" Dumbledore looks at Snape, who nods a confirmation. "Where? For how long?"

"I'm not sure. The Longbottom boy told me, when he stopped by with his delivery from the greenhouse. See, Potter was supposed to be spending detention with me this evening. I asked Longbottom if he'd seen him at dinner and he said he hadn't seen him all day."

"Wait. So there's the possibility that he's just cutting class, goofing off with his friends, whatever kids do…" Spektor says, looking at Snape now.

"No. Because Ron and Hermione haven't seen him either." Snape says.

"Ok. I'll notify the Order. Severus, you go to Grimmauld Place at once. Professor Spektor and I will be along shortly. We just have some business to discuss first." Dumbledore says. Snape nods and exits quickly, the whole way down the stairs trying to imagine what sort of business they could be discussing, trying to ignore the notion blossoming within that something truly awful is about to happen.

"My chair, please, Miss Spektor." Dumbledore says. She stands to one side, arms folded. "Sorry to keep you waiting. I see you've helped yourself to my lemon drops." He replaces the lid on the tin and tucks it back into his desk, briefly considering whether or not she's likely to have poisoned them. "I'm becoming a little…concerned…about our arrangement, Victoria."

"I'm not the one that alienated the boy we're trying to protect." She drawls. Dumbledore raises his eyebrows.

"Do have a seat."

"I'd prefer to stand."

"I sense you're angry with me." Dumbledore says. "Have I wronged you in some way?"

"No, sir." Manipulated, yes. Wronged, no…not really.

"Is there something you wish to tell me?"

"No, sir. But there's something you wish to tell me, isn't there?" She's staring at him. Anticipating it.

"Yes, there is something important that we haven't had a chance to discuss. Your parentage." Dumbledore peers at her over the rims of his half-moon glasses.

"Yes, it seems now's a perfect time to bring that up. Especially since you've known since December. God only knows how you found out…"

"I remembered a comment that Professor Slughorn had made one night a long time ago at a dinner party. Something about his best student, how she studied so hard her eyes literally bled. Only now did I just put the pieces together, and after a little research, I made quite an interesting discovery. But I wonder…why didn't you tell me?"

"Really? You wonder why I didn't tell you?" She laughs, a cold laugh, one that doesn't suit her. "So you know. Now what? Gonna send me back to Azkaban? Have me burned at the stake?"

"You weren't just one of Tom Riddle's first followers." Dumbledore says. "You said you suspected he had a crush on you. With this new information, I wonder if it was something more…"

"I'm afraid I don't follow…" V's face is blank, her tone unwavering.

"Previously I had come to the conclusion You-Know-Who was incapable of love, that is, of loving another person. But you…" he pauses, unsure of how to put this delicately, "are something else." Dumbledore is regarding her now as though she is a fierce creature, something wild and strange.

"I must say it was rather foolish of you to enter into such an arrangement with me with such little concrete information on who I actually am. You should've done your research a little sooner, Albus." She says, "But I'm not that surprised, really. I'm a poor, frail woman with no family, no friends, and a hefty criminal record. Naturally I fell at your feet, agreeing to help in exchange for my freedom. Naturally, you weren't concerned, as you expected to hold that over me. And so you have. Until now."

"You can't quit, Victoria. Because you're fired." Albus Dumbledore rises from his desk, his hand reaching inside the pocket of his robes for his wand. V draws her wand quick as a flash and immediately disarms him.

"I just don't think it's right, you know." She says, taking a step towards him. "Having someone like me teaching these students. They deserve better. I wouldn't want to put them in any danger." She picks up Albus' wand, studies it for a moment.

"I wouldn't do anything drastic if I were you, Victoria." Dumbledore says calmly.

"If you were me?" She walks behind him. "We've got all these wizards here, all these men, doing Great things." She gestures to the portraits surrounding them. "All these great men. Making discoveries. Winning battles. Recognized for their progress." She paces. "I remember when you defeated Gellert Grindelwald. It was in all the papers. On the lips of every witch and wizard for months afterward, years even. Still, I'm sure, you consider it one of your finest achievements."

"Gellert Grindelwald was a force of evil that had to be stopped." Albus says.

"He was your best friend." She adds.

"It was not a matter of friendship, it was a matter of protecting society as a whole, the wizarding world as we know it. What's best for everyone." Dumbledore lectures.

"For the greater good." V pauses beside the cabinet that conceals the pensive, along with Dumbledore's precious collection of memories.

"He Who Must Not Be Named is a threat, a danger to society. You know this, Victoria, you're a smart girl. Don't let him use you as he's used countless others." Dumbledore's voice quivers slightly. He sees her standing before him now—that slim frame, that cocked head, those lightless eyes—as she was as a student, a mere girl of seventeen. He never spoke to her. She always did well in his class, sat in the back, aced all the tests. Slipped in and out unnoticed. He remembers hearing some students gossip about her, nasty things, and automatically discounted them as false, never thinking to look further, to check on her, see if she was alright. She had Slughorn for that, he thought, her head of house. Did he fail her in some way? In a similar way that he suspects he failed Tom Riddle? And the two found each other. Of course. She's turned her back on him now, peering through the glass cabinet at the memories held in small glass bottles with ornate handwritten labels.

"One man. So many memories." She says, squinting to read the labels.

"They're not all mine. Some were given to me by others." Dumbledore says, cautiously approaching the cabinet, then coming to stand stilly by her side.

"Would you like one of mine?" She turns her face to him, her crimson lips parted slightly.

"I'd be honored." Albus says, taken aback. She plucks an empty vial from the cabinet and holds it delicately in her slender, bony fingers. Then, gracefully, she places Albus' wand to her temple and draws out a long silvery strand of light, a memory, and guides it into the vial, capturing it with the stopper. She hands it to Dumbledore.

"What is it?" Dumbledore asks.

"An answer." She says. "Consider it a parting gift. I'm sure we'll see each other again some day, Albus."

"I'm afraid you're not going anywhere, Victoria. You were released from Azkaban under the conditions that you remain under my guardianship. If you leave, I'll have no choice but to have you arrested."

"I'd like to see you try." V's walking away from him now, but not in the direction of the door. No, she's striding towards a mirror hanging on the wall to the left of his desk. Albus, clutching the memory in his hands, walks quickly after her. She pauses before the looking glass, regarding her reflection, the two wands in her hands, and tosses Albus' wand back to him. He catches it clumsily, almost dropping the vial. "Goodbye, Professor. I'll see you in hell." she says casually, casting a final glance over her shoulder before stepping into the mirror. Albus rushes up to it, stares at it, pokes it, removes it from the wall and checks the back. Ah, that's right, devils can travel through mirrors. He sets the mirror down on the floor, glass facing the stone wall. What other strange magic is she capable of? He looks down at the vial. He should have been more suspicious. Now it is clear, he can no longer afford to underestimate this girl, this woman, this magical creature. There is a darkness within her that is real and true and dangerous. He walks weakly to his desk, sits down, and heaves a big sigh. Upon the vial he applies a label, neatly tracing the letters of her name, a name, he shudders to think, may very well go down in history.


	31. II: Fear of Nothing

XXI  
Fear of Nothing  
[Little Hangleton | May 1944]

* * *

When she is alone the house is so cold. It creaks. Sometimes, it speaks. There are nights she gets so chilled she tears the pages out of books and uses them for kindling in the sooty fireplace in the master bedroom. Boring books on muggle things. Lists and lists of telephone numbers bound together. In the heavy wooden bed she sits up, cross-legged, sheets clutched to her chest, breathing very slowly, attempting to listen to the faint stirrings in the air, the ghostly movements. She would love to speak with them, Tom's father especially. There's been some activity, some shifting of her possessions, and she's sure that her presence is aggravating them. She climbs out of bed and lights a candle, carries it with her, and sets it down in the middle of the floor. Then, taking a tube of lipstick still sitting on the vanity in the corner, she draws a circle in the thick gummy pink stuff and steps inside, with the candle. She kneels, takes a deep breath, shuts her eyes, and begins an incantation. No more than two words are uttered before a gust of wind sweeps through the room from the hall and blows the candle out.

"Hello there." V whispers, relighting the candle with a snap of her fingers.

"Leave this place." A voice creeps in on the wind.

"I'm actually quite comfortable here, if you don't mind…" V says. "Who are you?"

"Leave this place." The voice repeats.

"Show yourself." V orders. "Go on." "I do not have to listen to your orders." The voice says. "Haven't you done enough to our family?"

"I…um…do I _know_ you?" V stammers, confused.

"You seduced our boy. Tricked him. Brought shame upon our reputation, our good name. You filthy girl. Heathen scum."

"Have I now?" She thinks, then realizes that this ghost has her mistaken for someone else.

"Terrible girl. Leave this place at once. You are not welcome here."

"If you're Tom's grandmother…"

"He is no grandson of mine."

"That's biologically inaccurate." V says, "Hey buy the way, I was wondering…what's it feel like? To die, that is?"

"It felt like nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing!" Another strong gust of wind whips up. The word echoes in her ears, each time deconstructing itself an element further, until at last it is just a collection of letters, a coincidence of sound. She stands up, crosses her arms upon her chest, and then, with her wand, closes the circle, the counterclockwise movement drawing the red wax up from the floor. Once the task of sealing the connection with the otherworld is complete, she stands there for a while, looking across the room at her reflection in the vanity mirror. Her hair is growing long and unruly. Her eyes are sinking into the shadows of her skull from all the consecutive sleepless nights, the wakeful unease, the constant solitude. This house was built for citizens, for upright members of some sort of society, for those who have use for all these rooms, all these things. Some days she doesn't leave the bed, which wouldn't be a terrible thing if she had someone to share it with her. Other days she sits at the window and peers out, watching the people down the hill traveling the road into and out of town. All those comings and goings. It was on one of these days, the window watching days, that she saw him approach, watched him walk right up to the front door. She swings it open before he even has a chance to knock.

"Were you waiting by the door?" Tom Riddle asks, eyebrows raised.

"Don't flatter yourself. Get over here." She drags him inside, fists stuffed with his shirtfront, and graces him with a long, cool kiss. With a careless thump his bags rattle the floorboards, his arms encircle the girl he's been longing for, the girl he's decided, while planning out the trajectory of his life from here on out, he's going to marry.

"My god it's been hard without you." He breathes, his breath hot, his skin hotter. The house itself is warm, fresh May sunlight filling the rooms within.

"How hard?" She playfully curls a strand of his hair around her index finger. As he presses himself into her the answer becomes evident.

"What happened to that soldier you had hanging around?" Tom's eyes dart this way and that.

"He…well…" V frowns, pulls slightly away, the thought of Tyrone really killing the mood for her. "There was an accident…He's no longer working for us."

"You mean…dead? Is he dead?"

"I don't want to talk about it right now."

"Fine. For the record, he was very irritating." Tom scoops her up, her lightness settling easy in his arms.

A storm has quickly gathered itself, its ranks raining down upon the faulty old roof, its arrows cracking across the sky, striking without aiming, a blind assault. On the second floor, amid a nest of tangled blankets and sheets, Tom Riddle reclines against the headboard of his grandparents' bed and stares up at the ceiling. Creaking floorboards in the hall alert him to V's return and he sits up. She appears in the doorway holding a candle in one hand and a freshly uncorked bottle of wine in the other, her skin pale as a pearl in the moonlight. She sets the candle on the bedside table before climbing back into bed. After handing the bottle to Tom, she tucks herself under the fold of his arm, lying back against his warm skin. Inside his chest his heart rattles and pounds.

"I'm surprised the place hasn't been looted. It's been vacant for nearly a year now." Tom says.

"There are some things missing. Like the silverware. And the china…"

"We won't be able to stay here for long. The groundskeeper will get suspicious." He says, handing the bottle to her. She takes a long swig, then licks her lips.

"I spoke to your grandmother. Her ghost, that is. I asked her what it felt like to die. She said dying feels like nothing."

"She said that?"

"Like nothing. Isn't that terrifying?" V lowers her voice almost to a whisper.

"Nothing." Tom says, the word lingering, refusing to be pushed away. "That is…That's awful. That's really terrible." He shivers.

"I know. It's the worst thought. You just end. You're just done. You're clock's tick-ticking along and then…silence." She takes another swig of wine and looks up into Tom's face, now bearing a mask of great unease. She hands the bottle to him and he takes it hastily. He's not one to show fear, Tom Riddle. No, he keeps that close to his chest. V turns her body towards him, loops her leg around his middle, and sits atop his lap, facing him. She leans in close and kisses his neck, his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder. There's a far-off look embedded deep within in the globes of his eyes. "But why worry about things that don't apply to us?"

"Do you really think it's possible?" He breathes, a hopeful spark buried in his deep smooth voice.

"I know it is. Once I finish tweaking that potion I've been working on, I really believe we'll…"

"Live forever." They say at the same time. He smiles. She kisses him deeply.

* * *

A rickety dock juts into the black waters of the Arctic Sea. Ice drifts in great chunks, slow moving and serene like fallen clouds. The tinkling of wind chimes mingles with the cry of the gulls above, as two sets of feet crunch down the frozen roadway towards a squat hut nearly completely concealed by snow. The two figures push back a pelt that looks like it once belonged to a bear, and duck inside the hut. The air is sooty, oily, and only mildly oppressive. V briefly considers leaving, but that would be counter-intuitive. They had just come all this way, at least a two-hour hike by foot. Something about the place prevented apparition. Some kind of old magic.

A stout, yet still unusually large, broad-shouldered man kneels by the fire and stirs a cauldron of what looks like water and bones. A thinner man, with long blond hair, sits on a stool and draws his sword across a stone. The metal rings. The sword glints in the firelight. The man with the sword looks up, and says something to the two snow-caked visitors that neither of them can understand. V takes out her wand and casts a translation charm. The man drops his sword on the stone with a clang, his eyes widening at the sight of the wand.

"Wizards?" He asks, although it's more like an exclamation. His face lights up, like a child who's just caught Santa Claus nipping a cookie from the plate by the fireplace.

"We seek passage to Svalbard." V removes her hood, her long black hair tumbling forth, eyes black and shiny in the firelight, skin rose-tinted at the cheeks and the tip of her nose.

"I knew a wizard once." The man by the fire muses, stirring the bones with a ladle. "He had terrible taste in literature."

"How about that. The next voyage is tomorrow morning at sunrise." The blond one says.

" _Tomorrow_ morning?" Tom whines, dusting the snow off his jacket, and neglecting to introduce himself.

"You are welcome to stay here for the night." The blond one says, rising from the stool and standing the sword against the wall. "I'm the Captain." He says, offering his hand to V. "You can call me Captain." V shakes Captain's hand.

"Captain of what?" V asks absently.  
"The ship." Captain says. "You know, the ship Ship. The good ship Ship."

"He's terrible at naming things." The one by the fire pipes up. "No surprise, considering his own name…" V and Tom stare at him blankly. "He named the ship 'Ship.'" Silence. "The vessel. You know, the boat. That you'll be taking to Svalbard tomorrow." V nods stiffly. "I'm Meznik." He drops the ladle in the pot and holds out his hand, which both Tom and V shake politely.

"Meznik, see that our guests are made comfortable." Captain says, walking about as if suddenly fifteen things popped into his mind that he had to take care of, and was sorting through which to do first.

"All right." Meznik says, and waves the two visitors closer to the fire. "Come, sit." He produces two tin mugs, fills them with the liquid the bones are floating around in, and hands one to each of them. Tom sniffs it suspiciously. V drinks it without a second thought, and cannot conceal the pure joy the beverage spreads to every inch of her body. It's the best broth she's ever tasted, and probably ever will taste. Pure liquid alchemy. Tom sips his slowly, the color slowly coming back into his cheeks. Warmed by the broth, they both slip off their heavy outer cloaks. "That's better." Meznik says heartily. "So what brings you two to Svalbard? It's not a very interesting place. Just a hunk of frozen land, really."

"Just…curious." Tom says, unconvincingly.  
"We like…very cold temperatures." V adds, not helping.

"So you're…scientists?" Meznik asks.  
"Something like that." Tom says. Meznik narrows his eyes, but only slightly, still maintaining his affable demeanor.

"How long have you lived here?" V asks, resting the mug on her knee.

"A long time. Since I can remember. Maybe my whole life." Meznik muses. "Time does funny things up here. The snow and the quiet, it slows things down, stretches them out. Sometimes a day can feel like a year. Sometimes a year can feel like a lifetime." He stirs the bones. "Sometimes I imagine it that way, you know. That I've lived all these lifetimes. Always the same sort of person though. But who knows? Maybe not. There's always the opportunity for change, at the beginning…"

"But you never do. Change, that is." V says, listening intently.

"Oh no, I just like the idea of it. The imagination of it, you know. I have no reason to change anything."

"You mean to tell me…" Now V narrows her eyes. "There's no other person you'd rather be than yourself, no other place you would rather be than right here in this hut, stirring these bones, taking orders from _that_ guy?" She nods her head in the direction of Captain. Meznik smiles wide and nods. V struggles with this concept silently for the next few minutes.

"We don't get many visitors, you know. Maybe you're surprised to hear it. But I think the last time we had a visitor might've been that wizard, that Salamander guy."

"Newt Scamander? The Magizoologist?" Tom straightens up.

"That's the one. Was studying some creatures, and needed to go to Svalbard to catch a fish or something."

"Fish?" Tom puzzles back to when he read through _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ , but couldn't recall anything about a magic fish from the Arctic Ocean. Whatever, this guy just referred to him as the "Salamander guy," so if that's any indication of what they're dealing with, the fish could be a dragon. Perhaps a sea dragon? Wait, do those even exist?

"So tell me, wizard scientists. What are you studying?" Meznik folds his arms.

Tom and V look at each other, both tired, neither caring to explain, or to put the effort into crafting a half-decent lie. With a small sigh, V leans onto Tom's shoulder, resting her head.

"Herbology." She says wistfully. "Plants, that is. We study plants."

"Plants?" Meznik laughs. "Not gonna find many plants on Svalbard, let me tell you. Just a lot of ice."

"Yes, but we want to check to see if there are any frozen plants embedded in the ice, from before the last ice age." Tom says. Good one, V thinks.

"So you're historians then. Wizard historian scientists. Fascinating." Meznik's face lights up for a minute, perhaps imagining what it's like to be a wizard historian scientist, trekking to the most remote, neglected corners of the globe to see what nature preserved of it's long-forgotten past. "Well, Mr. and Mrs…sorry I didn't catch your names…" Again V and Tom exchange looks, V indicating this time that it's Tom's turn to chose how to answer.

"Voldemort." Tom says. V rolls her eyes.

"Right, so, Mr. and Mrs. Voldemort, as Captain said, we set sail tomorrow morning at dawn." Meznik rises, goes over to a large stack of animal skins, and returns, plopping them down by the fire. "You can use these to make a bed and keep warm, I guess. It's all we have. Like I said, we don't get too many visitors…"

"This is fine." V says, unable to conceal her disdain as she peels apart the animal skins and starts to layer them to make some sort of mattress. Meznik nods and bids them goodnight, then retreats to the far corner of the hut, out of reach of the fire.

"Mr. and Mrs. Voldemort." V sneers.

"Why don't you like it? What's wrong with it?" Tom sighs, exasperated, as he gingerly settles on the lumpy stack of skins.

"I just have a bad feeling about it, that's all. It creeps me out. Riddle is better." V settles down next to him.

"My filthy muggle father's name? Are you serious?" He raises his voice, but V quickly shushes him.

"Look, I'm not trying to start anything, but…" V whispers, turning on her side to face him.

"Then don't." Tom smiles harshly. She turns over abruptly. This muggle-hating thing has only been getting worse and worse as time goes on. V's not sure whether it's the name that creeps her out more, or the muggle-hating. Both give her a bad bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. She feels him shift closer to her, his arm rounding the curve of her hip, his chest pressed up against her back, his warm breath on her neck. She leans back into him, soaking up his warmth.

* * *

After only a few hours of closed eyes and shivering half-sleep, V is awoken by the crunch of footsteps and hot breath on her face. For a moment she assumes it is Tom, but snaps her eyes open anyways, and what did she see but Captain teetering over her, a carving knife clutched in his cracked and veiny fist. No sooner did V see the glint of the blade than it was in her hand, Captain staggering back, shaken and disoriented. Somewhere off in the icy shadows Meznik springs to his feet, the earth shifting beneath his mass. Tom wakes with a gasp, scrambles a bit and grabs his wand, aiming it at the trundling giant, and firing a hasty killing curse, stopping the poor Meznik dead in his tracks. His body stiffens and drops to the ground. Looking around hurriedly to see what's become of the other assailant, his gaze falls on V, the carving knife lodged up under the Captain's chin, blood painting the wall behind, the floor, and V herself.

"Bloody hell." Tom heaves, his breath quickened, his heart beating out of his chest. "What…" He briefly considers whether he's about to faint, and settles on the conclusion that it's highly possible.

"I don't think our story was very convincing." She says, pulling the knife out of Captian, and letting him drop in a bloody heap upon the floor.

"I guess not." He frowns, stepping out of the way of the pool of blood as its' boundaries widen.

"Oh shit. The ship. We're screwed." V says, dropping the knife, and absentmindedly running her bloody hand through her hair.

"Not necessarily." Tom says, looking at the dead Captain. "There's this spell…you know the one…" She does know the one, but she seriously doubts it actually will work, not that she's going to tell Tom that to his face. He rolls up his sleeves and squats next to Captain, who's arm has flopped over into the fire pit, and is now caked in hot ash. While V rummages for her wand amongst the animal skins, Tom mutters a strange backward incantation, holding his wand steadily above the dead captain's heart. A spark shoots from the corpse's chest and rests delicately on the tip of Tom's wand. He blows on it softly and it drifts back down onto Captain, disappearing as soon as it makes contact with his shirt, like a snowflake on a warm palm. There's a moment of stillness, and then, a breath, and another, then rapid breaths, punctuated by the scraping of feet, the hustled retreat of Tom Riddle as Captain's dead body convulses on the floor. V's found her wand, and just as she's poised to clean herself up she stops, and instead watches as the dead man slowly rises to his feet.

"My god." She says, mouth agape, eyes wide with awe. It's a beautiful thing, to see her like that, standing there admiring his work. The drawback, he's found, to being involved with someone on such equal footing as himself, is that it grows much harder to impress her as time goes on. And, though he might hate to admit it, he does love to impress—to make a good show, as it were. "Incredible."

"Imperio." Tom says. The dead man looks around, confused, as though waiting for instructions. "Give him a name."

"Let's see…" V muses. "Cornflake." Tom squints, slightly annoyed, as though she's making a joke of the whole thing.

"Cornflake."

"That's Captain Cornflake to you." V says.

"I'm a captain?" Cornflake asks. "I've always wanted to dig holes!"

"This is going to get very weird very quickly." Tom sighs. V laughs, kneels down, and starts wiping the blood off of Cornflake's neck.

"Why all this?" Cornflake asks.

"You were just born. It's pretty normal." V says.

"Ah. Right. Of course." Cornflake says, starting to unlace his shoes. He pops the left one off, then the right, and tosses them into the fire. "Won't be needing these anymore!"

"Oh my god, make him _stop_." Tom whines, climbing back into the animal skins to get warm.

"You're the one who imperius-ed him." V says, crossing her arms.

"Oh. Right." Tom grabs his wand, points it at Cornflake, and orders him to shut up and go to bed. "And put out that fire, will you?" He asks V. V glares at him, grabs a bucket of water and throws it on the fire, the wood hissing and cracking at the contact of the substance, like so many coiled and angry snakes disturbed from their reverie.


	32. II: The Department of Mysteries

XXXII  
The Department of Mysteries  
London | April 1995

* * *

Harry's been holding his breath for so long that, if Ron hadn't grabbed is shoulder, he might've passed out. He inhales sharply, his body stiffening, trying to sense any movement among the rows of high, teetering shelves lined with dusty globes.

"Over there. I heard something." Ron whispers, jaw stiff, eyes wide with darkness. Hermione shoots him an angry look, drawing her finger across her mouth. Harry treads in the direction Ron indicated, excruciatingly aware of the noise the rubber soles of his sneakers made against the highly polished floor. He approaches the aisle, pauses at the end, and very very slowly, peers around the shelf. A figure stood about five feet from him, bent over, scrutinizing the faded plaques affixed beneath each globe.

"You won't find what you're looking for here." The figure says without turning its head, at full speaking volume, shattering the hush like a rare vase on the floor.

"Professor?" Harry steps around the shelf. He'd know that voice anywhere. "Sirius is hurt…" He begins frantically, squeaking towards her, a false sense of safety elbowing out his better judgement. Professor Spektor turns her head slowly to look at the boy before her, and then turns back to the shelf she was just scanning, the minuscule plaques inches from her nose, her breath a warm frost upon the cold past before her. "Professor? Please, you've got to help us! You-know-who…"

"Harry please, quiet down." She sweeps her hand at him as she would a fly buzzing too close to her ear. After hearing the exchange, Ron, Hermione, and Neville round the corner, treading more cautiously, but with the same anxious gait Harry exhibited before. They were all getting a small dose of it — the unsettling yet comforting feeling of seeing a teacher out in the world, beyond the school walls. All the more reassuring now that they're in this…situation.

"What are you doing here?" Ron blurts. He imagines she also came here to find Sirius, event though she hates him, wait, does she really hate him? Maybe not. Maybe she's got a thing for him? She's certainly doing that thing guys do when they like a girl but tease her mercilessly and pick fights with her for no reason. Anyway, what? If she's here, maybe the rest of the Order is already on their way…

"Trying to find something. Which is difficult because your friend keeps blabbering…" She deadpans, kneeling down to peer now at the bottom shelf.

"Have you seen Sirius? Are you here with him?" Hermione asks.

"What? No. Sirius isn't here." Professor Spektor's tone is oddly annoyed, the four think.

"Well obviously." Ron says, resting a hand on his hip, his eyes glancing about.

"Stop being so dense, Ron." Hermione snaps, rolling her eyes.

"Really now. I thought you were all smarter than this. C'mon Potter, think about it. What does this seem like to you?" Professor Spektor straightens up, coughing up ancient dust and grime. Potter looks up at her, blinking.

"It's a trap." Hermione's whisper is startled and forceful, as though the wind was just knocked from her lungs. "It's a trap, Harry."

"A trap." Harry says, just beginning to process this.

"Well well well. Here they are. Ah, V. I didn't know we'd have the…um…pleasure of your company." Lucius Malfoy, dressed in full Death Eater regalia, steps forward out of the shadows, removing his mask.

"Funny, that." V stretches a strained, sarcastic smile. "Neither did I."

"Aww come on." Bellatrix Lestrange's whine precedes her. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Saving a child's life." She places her hand atop Harry's head and grabs a clump of hair in her fist. Harry winces, his eyes crinkling in pain.

"I'm not really a…child…" Harry mutters under his breath. Nobody hears him.

"What's that? What's she got there?" Bellatrix points at Hermione, who's carefully lifting a globe off a nearby shelf. A swirl of blue light dances within it's glass shell. Underneath this particular globe, Hermione noticed moments before, was a plaque bearing Harry's name. Her she spins around and hides the globe behind her back. Ron stealthily takes it from her.

"Nothing." Hermione shows her hands.

"They found it." Bellatrix shrieks. "They found it! Get it, Lucius!" She shoves Lucius in Hermione's direction and he stumbles over his feet.

"Give it here, girl. Before you drop it." Lucius holds out his leather-gloved hand. Hermione staggers backwards, her eyes fixed on Lucius Malfoy, as Ron turns full around and breaks into a sprint, Neville clambering behind him.

"Leave her alone!" Harry yells, yanking against Spektor's grip, his scalp straining in agony. "Professor? Professor, let me go."

"I'm sorry, Harry, but I can't do that." Professor Spektor frowns down at him. "You'll want to come with me."

"What? Wait, no! No! Get off!" Harry struggles against her as she releases his hair and grabs him swiftly by the arm. Lucius and Bellatrix have disappeared. In the gathering darkness Harry can hear Hermione's frantic breathing as she scrambles after Ron and Neville, trying to follow the slapping of their footsteps as they echo off the teetering shelves of prophecies.

They're walking quickly now, Spektor practically dragging Harry down the long rows of shelves until they reach a large iron door. She places her hand on the center panel it and it opens with ease. Harry briefly wonders how she did that without a spell or incantation. But that thought is quickly replaced with another one.

"Professor, do you really think it's a good idea to leave all of my friends back there with those death eaters?" Harry spits, sarcastically.

"Yes." Spektor says flatly, lurching him through the door. They're in a room full of long thin tubes, floor to ceiling, filled with shimmering iridescence. "The Room of Tears." She says, as though they were on the quick tour, and she was his disinterested tour guide. "There was a time, long ago, when people would sell their tears. Not a very lucrative business to be in, but if you're particularly inclined to weeping, why not? Less painful than selling blood, although I guess that depends on how you feel about crying…" Harry notices a tube labeled "Phoenix Tears." He was about to ask whether tears from different people had different properties when Spektor gives another strong tug on his arm and he almost falls over. Then, another door, another hand placed on the center panel, and another room, this time circular, with a single archway in the center, hung with a black curtain billowing in an unfelt breeze. There's a deep silence in the air. Harry thinks for a moment that maybe there's no air in the room at all. "The death chamber." Spektor says, mimicking the voice that makes the announcements on the tube, although Harry seriously doubts she's ever even been on the tube…

"I know you're in here." Spektor's sharp voice cracks the thick quiet, sending shards clattering to the floor.

"Oh. Um. Yes." There's a cold voice echoing from a dark corner, and quick footsteps approaching. "So you're angry, but really is there anything to be angry about? I…" The voice stops. The footsteps stop. "Is that…Harry Potter?"

"Your favorite boy." V releases Harry's arm and puts a hand on his shoulder, still gripping rather hard. The source of the voice takes a step closer, into the light, and Harry is face-to-face with none other than Lord Voldemort. A wicked smile stretches across Voldemort's waxy face.

"I knew you'd come around." Voldemort says, either to V or to Harry.

"You really think I'm going to let you murder this boy?" V laughs a little.

"I…come on. You…you have to understand. You _have_ to _understand_!" Voldemort's tone falls into a deep growl as he clenches and unfurls his fists.

"No, you have to understand." V says. "If you think for one moment I'm going to allow someone to kill an innocent boy for no good reason other than 'he must die,' you're not the man I once knew. You're not the man who saved me from a similar fate. He's a child, and he's done nothing but want to grow up, to experience the gift of life that was given to him. Tom, if you truly care about me, about the work we'd set out to do, about what we could accomplish together, you will stop this and leave Harry Potter alone." With every word her grip tightens on Harry's shoulder, to the point where he can't feel his arm anymore.

"Leave. Harry. Potter. Alone." Voldemort drops the words like stones onto the cool clear surface upon which they stand. And then he begins to laugh, that high, cold laugh. "It looks like you've got an admirer, Harry." Harry chances a glance up at V, who is not amused in the least. He wants to speak, but he can't manage to make a sound.

"Kill all the idiot wizards you want, Tom. But this boy, his friends, the muggles, they're defenseless. They've done nothing… Let them be. Please, just…"

"So soft, you've gone. Dumbledore's influence, no doubt." Voldemort spits.

"I haven't changed. Not one bit. It's you. It's you that's changed." V growls.

"Did she tell you she's a devil?" Voldemort asks Harry. Harry stares at him, eyes wide and unblinking. "Did she tell you how many men she's killed with her bare hands? Those very hands?" Harry flinches. V tightens her grip.

"Tom, please. You're not that different than you once were." She releases Harry abruptly and walks over to Voldemort, and takes his hand. Harry watches, stunned. "You know how much I care about you. Listen to me, this is for the better. For the greater good. Let him live, so we can live. Please. Do it for me." She looks up at him, pleading, with her great black shimmering eyes. He blinks, frowns.

"What else then? I don't know…this is it. To find this kid. To kill him. That's all I've been doing. What else is there for me to do? How am I supposed to do _anything_ while he's alive?" Voldemort's tone of voice has shifted dramatically. There's a youthful whine in it, and Harry can almost imagine him as the Hogwarts student he met in the diary all those years ago.

"We'll figure something out." V says, smiling softly.

"I just…" It's as though Voldemort's completely forgotten Harry is even there, however unlikely that seems. His thought is interrupted by a slamming as the door bangs open and Lucius and Bellatrix rush in, Harry's friends in tow. They stop in their tracks, surveying the scene. Bellatrix has a glimmering globe in her hand. Voldemort's eyes fix on it immediately.

"Bring that here, Bellatrix." Voldemort orders. Bellatrix saunters up, a cocky jaunt to her shoulders, a wicked smile on those painted lips. She wrinkles her nose at V, and stands there, waiting. But the globe does nothing.

"Looks like it's broken. Oh well." V shrugs.

"It's not broken." Voldemort says, turning toward Harry. "Give this to him." He drops the globe into V's hands. Reluctantly, she returns to Harry, who instinctively takes a step back, then heaves a deep breath and holds his hands out.

"I'm sorry." V says, not meeting his eyes, and rolls the globe into his cupped palms. As soon as the globe touches his skin, a very familiar voice echoes throughout the chamber.  
""The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…" Says Sybill Trelawney, Hogwarts' Divination teacher and Dumbledore's trusted friend.

"Either must die at the hand of the other." Voldemort muses.

"For neither can live while the other survives." V finishes, the anger rising within her. In a moment of haste and fury she grabs the sphere from Harry and chucks it against the wall. It bursts in a million shards of liquid light.

"No! No. Child. Will die. Here. Tonight." She roars, looking from Voldemort, to Harry, to Bellatrix and Lucius, who've taken a step back.

"It must be done." Voldemort shrugs his shoulders and draws his wand. Another crash reverberates in the circular chamber as a flood of people rush in, wands drawn. In an instant, Voldemort vanishes in a wisp of cold dark air. At the helm of the party is Sirius Black, who sprints to Harry's side, and trains his wand steadily on V, now standing alone.

"I knew it." Sirius spits at her feet.

"No, Sirius. You've got it wrong!" Harry hastily tries to explain. "She's here to protect me!"

"He's right, cousin." Bellatrix sneers. "But to what end, I wonder…" She also trains her wand on V.

"Wait a second — I haven't done anything! Everyone just calm down." V backs away, putting her hands up.

"Don't hurt her! She's trying to save Harry! I saw it!" Ron yells. "She's on our side. Sirius, stop!"

"How dare you claim you tried to save Harry when you brought him here." Sirius barks, advancing.

"I didn't bring him here! Your bitch of a cousin tricked him into coming here!" V points at Bellatrix, who responds with a ear-splitting cackle.

"Who's the bitch?" Bellatrix advances. They're closing in on her. Her back's up against the archway. The billowing black curtain laps against her hand. She inches around to the opening, slips her hand in, and withdraws it.

"My my, from this vantage point it almost looks like you're all on the same side." She says, the corners of her mouth curling. With a quick wink at Harry, she steps backward into the archway and disappears behind the black curtain. A rush of icy wind fills the room. And then all is silent.


	33. II: The Hard Bargain

A/N: Thank you all for the continued support! AvalonTheLadyKiller, your reviews continue to make me blush ;) We're coming up on the close of this story, but there's a sequel already in the works so you know what that means (no not cliffhangers, I wouldn't be _that_ cruel)...

* * *

Chapter XXXIII

The Hard Bargain

[Knockturn Alley | October 1944]

* * *

Light tries to break through the dirt-crusted windows but to no avail. There is a thick quiet dimness in the one-room flat, the strongest light coming from the flame set beneath V's cauldron. She grasps the wooden spoon tightly between her fingers, stirring with a stiff arm and a careful eye, her breath held back behind her bitten lip. A wisp of hair dislodges itself from behind her ear but she let's it dangle, so consumed she is in the minute calculations, watching for the shift in color and consistency.

"Better not let it boil!" Tom calls, casually entering the room, banging the door shut behind him. She doesn't flinch.

"I'll kill you I swear." She says, stirring. "Sit down and shut up or get out."

"Right then. I'll leave you to it." He says, unusually chipper, swinging an empty canvas sack over his shoulder. "Dinner. What'll it be?"

"Oh I don't care. Just don't bring home a rat again. That wasn't funny." She says sharply, not looking at him.

"When you say you don't care…" He smiles wickedly.  
"Get out!" She barks. He skips out the door, letting it slam, and takes the stairs two at a time, barely able to contain his excitement. Today's the day. The last day of brewing. The final addition. He's had to deal with her like this, all this ordering and bitching and so on, for weeks now. But all to good end. Finally, they'll have it. One more step toward immortality. If it works, that is…

Tom Riddle winds through the dark passageways that spider off of Knockturn Alley and comes across a butcher shop with a few scrawny chickens hanging in the window by their necks. He ducks in, and the bell on the door jingles brightly. A boy steps to the counter, bright eyes set in a face caked with soot.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"How much for that one there?" Tom points to the scrawniest chicken.

"Two knuts, sir." The boy says. Tom reaches into his pocket and pulls out two coins. He looks at them for a moment, briefly considering whether this was worth it, or if they could subsist on another meal of day-old bread crust and rotten vegetables. His stomach grumbles. He hands over the coins. The boy goes to the window, unhooks the chicken, and hands it to Tom. He puts it in the sack and steps back out on to the street. A chill wind is whipping up. He's just nearly to the building where he and V have been living when he slows his pace, noticing, out of the corner of his eyes, dark shadows flitting about him. A low voice booms behind him and he halts, drawing his wand.

"Your weapon is no use to you." The voice says. Tom swivels his head, trying to find the source of the sound, but he doesn't see anything. "Hand over the bag." The voice orders. Oh my god, really? He briefly contemplates running away, but he deems it unwise since he can't even see who he'd be running from.

"It's just a dead chicken. I've got no money on me." Tom says, and it's true. "Please let me go, I haven't had a proper meal in weeks." He feels a bit pathetic upon saying it, but hopefully it's effectively persuasive…

"We've been watching you." The voice says.

"You've been…what now?" Tom stammers. What the hell is going on here? "Show yourself! Go on!" He brandishes his wand and deepens his stance. And from the shadows steps not one man, but six. They approach Tom, surround him, their movement coordinated and graceful, all parts of one whole. Six broad-shouldered men in white robes, white like smoke, like the moon in a winter sky. "Who are you?" He stammers.

"I am the guard." The six voices speak in unison, the same voice issuing from every mouth. "And you are Tom Riddle."

"And you want…this?" He holds up the bag. The heads nod. He tosses the bag at them, and one of them catches it, but he's unable to tell which one before it disappears within the folds of their white robes.

"Take us to her." The guard booms.

"Who?"

"You know who."

"Who sent you?" Tom asks stupidly, already knowing the answer. They all raise their hands.

"Take us to her." They repeat. Tom's sweating, white-knuckling the wand in his right hand. There's only one way out. He takes a deep breath, and with a crack he disapparates.

When he appears seconds later in the middle of their room with a loud pop, his legs give out from under him and he collapses on the floor. V drops the spoon into the cauldron.

"Shit!" She plucks it out, begins stirring again, but the mixture's thickened a little too much. "I'm going to fucking murder you! What's wrong with the stairs, huh? Forgotten how to use your damn legs?" Her voice bristles with anger.

"Victoria…" He's breathing heavily.

"What?" She snaps. When he doesn't say anything, a pang of dread strikes in her heart. She rushes to him, forgetting about the potion that's probably already ruined. He's pale, sweaty, and breathing hard. "What happened?"

"I don't…I…they…" Tom tries to speak but can't. It's like his words are being censored, plucked from his lips by some nasty editor. "I'm…I think I…I made a mistake…" He heaves.

"What the hell are you talking about?" V blanches. She notices he doesn't have the bag anymore. "The bag. Tom, what happened to the bag?"

"They took it."

"Who took it?"

"They…" He can't say the word. They won't let him. But he doesn't need to, because, out of the shadows, six figures in white robes are closing in on them.

"No. No. Get out! Get out!" She screams, drawing her wand.

"Hello Victoria." The mouths greet her warmly.

"You can't take me!" She conjures a ring of flame around her and Tom, forcing the guard to retreat. Below them a loud bang sounds, accompanied by the shuffling of many heavy feet. The guard fades back into the corners of the room just as the door bangs open and a fleet of Magical Law Enforcement officers pour inside.

"Stay where you are! Don't move! Drop your weapon!" A familiar voice orders, quickly extinguishing the flames, which leave a deep circular groove in the wood floor. V drops her wand, and Auror Abernathy Hardscrabble collects it. Another Auror, Gillian Wrexby, rushes up and helps Tom up off the ground. "Are you Victoria Spketor?"

"Unfortunately." V frowns deeply, heaves a frustrated sigh.

"You are under arrest for the murder of Septimus and Lucinda Spektor." Hardscrabble says as magical ropes bind her hands behind her back. V looks over her shoulder at Tom, who's being propped up by the muscly Wrexby, a dark and stern man with long dreadlocks. Tom doesn't meet her eyes.

"Does it make any difference if I say I'm innocent?" V says halfheartedly.

"I wouldn't think so." Hardscrabble says. "How do you know this man?" The he asks, pointing to Tom.

"Never met him before in my life." V says. Hardscrabble nods, jotting the note down in his book. "Your name, son." He demands, turning to face Tom.

"O'Connor." Tom says. "Edward O'Connor."

"Right, then, Wrexby, see that Mr. O'Connor is taken to St. Mungo's and evaluated for any injuries he may have sustained at Ms. Spektor's hand." Hardscrabble orders. "I think we're done here." Wrexby nods and escorts Tom through the door and down the stairs. "Gave us quite the puzzle, Ms. Spektor. Well done." Hardscrabble smiles. "I think you'll quite like it in Azkaban. Three square meals a day and all that." He pushes her towards the door. She glances nervously back at the table, the potion bubbling over, the small brown jar labeled with a crossed-through circle. This is how it ends, she thinks. All that trouble, that time, the careful planning. She killed a man for the contents of the bottle, and now it was going to get thrown in some trash heap. What a fucking waste. That's how it happens, though. She was too optimistic, she let herself dream that she could outrun them. All of them. But she wasn't quick enough. Or was it Tom that slowed her down? No. Don't even go there. He loves her. He'll find a way to get her out, she's sure of it. She just needs to be patient. She just needs to wait.

The two exit the room, leaving the door open wide behind them. The sun breaks through a chink in the dirt-coated windows. From the shadows the guard emerge once more, circling the table where the potion still bubbles away, the spoon bobbing up and down in the inky liquid. They extinguish the flame with a collective blow, and confiscate all the objects on the table, along with anything left inside the small room, all of V and Tom's belongings. They fade as quickly as they appeared, leaving the room in quiet, dusty emptiness. Just a table, a bed, and charred circle on the floor.

* * *

"We lost him, sir." Wrexby says, standing with folded arms in the door frame of Hardscrabble's office.

"What do you mean you lost him?" Hardscrabble says distractedly, not fully processing the significance of the statement.

"We lost him. O'Connor. He just vanished. But that's not the strange thing." Wrexby enters, but remains standing before Hardscrabble's desk. Hardscrabble looks up from behind the mound of parchment and squints at Wrexby through a pair of bent wire glasses.

"Strange thing?"

"After he vanished we tried to trace him. And of course we found him. But it's not him. Its not O'Connor. That is, the man who was with Miss Spektor was not O'Connor. This is the real Edward O'Connor." Wrexby produces a photograph of Edward O'Connor clipped from a newspaper, flying in a local Quidditch match as a chaser. Hardscrabble squints at the picture and nods.

"Yes, that's a different person."

"This photograph was taken the day we arrested Miss Spektor." Wrexby says.

"What about any evidence at the flat? Did our mystery man leave behind anything? An article of clothing perhaps?" Hardscrabble sets the photograph down.

"That's just it, sir. We went back to check the flat and it was completely cleaned out. Nothing left. Not even the furniture. Either it was looted, or someone doesn't want to be found." Wrexby says. Hardscrabble's face falls into a deep, troubled frown.

"No matter. We've got Miss Spektor. This guy's probably just nervous his little rendezvous with Miss Spektor will damage his reputation." Hardscrabble speculates, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest.

"I did find this, though, sir." Wrexby produces another photograph, one he himself had taken. Hardscrabble squints at it, holding it so close he leaves a grease mark on the shiny paper with his nose. The image is of the circle burned into the floor. Both Wrexby and Hardscrabble remember, upon leaving the flat, that there was nothing inside the circle, just smooth unmarked wood. However, in this photograph Wrexby took after returning to the flat, there's a symbol carved into the center of the circle: a reversed pentacle, inscribed within a snake biting its own tail. "What do you think it is, sir? I've never seen anything like it."

"Neither have I. Perhaps the folks down in the Department of Mysteries might know something. Take this down there, would you?" Hardscrabble says, his voice wavering slightly. The sight of the thing makes him nervous, but he can't say why. He doesn't want anything to do with it. Wrexby nods, takes the photo, and slips it into his pocket.


	34. II: Word on the Street

A/N: Thank you for the continued support! I promise I'll try and update more frequently!

* * *

CHAPTER XXXIV

Word on the Street

[London | 1944]

* * *

"No way. I refuse to believe it." Julie Pembroke crumples the newest issue of the Daily Prophet and furiously chucks it in the bin. "It's impossible."

"You're just upset because you knew her so well. That you couldn't tell…" Kathleen stirs her tea.

"I think I'd be able to tell if my best mate was a _mass murderer_." Julie Pembroke growls. "This is pure rubbish. She was going to be a _healer_ for godsakes, Katy, why the bloody hell would she go about killing people?"

"I dunno. I didn't know her as well as you did." Kathleen shrugs, pushing a cup of tea towards the fuming Julie. "What I do know is that she was dating that creep. You know…what's his name…the head boy…"

"Tom Riddle? You think he put her up to it?"

"It happens. When you're dating someone, sometimes you start to do things you wouldn't normally do…to please them, or because you have no other choice…" Kathleen doesn't meet Julie's eyes.

"Oh. I see. You're making this about us now, huh?"

"You know I feel uncomfortable doing this. Pretending we're roommates. We're going to get _caught_ , Julie. And you know what happens if we get caught…" She looks at Julie, who's somewhere between furious and distraught. "We'll get our very own cells in Azkaban right next to your best mate V."

"How would we prove that Tom made her kill those people? Also, like, why would _he_ want all of them dead? I don't get it…we have to find him. We've got to get to the bottom of this."

"Yeah, sure, just… _change the subject_."

"I'm not changing the subject—you're the one who changed the subject. Anyway, what do you know about this guy? Where does he work?"

"In a shop, I think. One of those creepy shops in Knockturn Alley. You're _really_ going to just go and talk to him? What are you going to say? 'Hey did you put my best mate under the imperius curse and force her to wipe out the population of an entire muggle town?'" Kathleen tries to reign in her sarcasm but it's a little too strong, just like her tea.

"Yeah. Something like that." Julie gets up, scoops up her tea, downs it in one go, and sets it noisily back on its saucer. "You coming or what?"

"I've got to be in the office in twenty minutes. I'm sorry, Julie…I can't be late." Kathleen sips her tea.

"Right. Well, uh, don't wait up. And by that I mean, if I'm not home before dinner call the authorities because I'm probably dead!" Julie throws on her charcoal grey traveling cloak and, before opening the door, calls over her shoulder, "I love you!"

Kathleen puts her finger to her lips, and behind it she mouths the same words. Then, to Julie's surprise, she blows her a kiss. Kathleen usually isn't one for cutesy displays of affection, but on the few rare times she does something like this, Julie gets the biggest, goofiest smile on her face. Like the one she's wearing as she closes the door behind her and trudges down the hallway.

Knockturn alley isn't far, and Julie walks quickly, her feet tapping a nervous staccato upon the cobblestones. Nervous because she doesn't want to be seen going there, sure, but also nervous because of the person she's going to meet. She's only had one conversation with him — the last time V went missing. Although she doesn't remember what happened, she remembers he was very angry. But hopefully he's angry at the situation, and would be willing to help gather information to disprove these ridiculous claims. 

* * *

Borgin and Burkes is slow, as always, and the dust sleeps thick upon the oddities crammed on ancient bookcases, trinkets cased glass for protection (ours, not theirs). Tom's at the register, trying to make some sense out of the nonsensical bookkeeping practices of his employer. He's hunched over the large book, peering through a magnifying glass, when the bell on the door tinkles. A cloaked figure slips inside and starts browsing. Tom tries to get a good look at who it is, but Borgin comes up behind him brandishing the Daily Prophet, the rustle of which makes Tom jump out of his skin.

"Something bothering you, boy?" Borgin grumbles, a twinge of amusement in his gruff voice. "You seen the papers, then? About this new girl Grindelwald's got. Just about your age, she is. Did you know her?"

"She was in my year at Hogwarts." Tom says, strained. Julie ducks behind a bookcase and holds her breath. "The smartest witch I've ever met."

"Ah. No wonder Grindelwald recruited her so young. Seems like a waste though, to use her in such a way. Azkaban at 18…bloody hell…"

"Yeah." Tom shrugs. "How do they figure she was working for Grindelwald though? I mean, where's the _proof_?"

"Who else would she be working for?" Borgin raises his eyebrows so high they disappear beneath the scraggly white mop on the top of his head.

"It's just…where's the motive, you know. She wipes out some random muggle town in Wales…for what?"

"For the greater good, my boy." Borgin squints at him. "Not everyone has a personal vendetta. Some people just donate their time and resources to the cause in whatever capacity they are needed."

"I don't…what…?" Tom shakes his head. "I mean, yes. Of course." Julie drops a small glass orb on the ground and it shatters. "Can I _help_ you?" Tom asks, irritated but secretly thankful to have an exit, getting up to see what was broken. But what he didn't know was that he was entering another difficult conversation, with, to his surprise, V's best friend Julie.

"I'm sorry, it just rolled off the shelf all by itself. I swear I didn't touch it." Julie apologizes in a fluster of motion.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?" Tom doesn't know what to make of this. How did she know where to find him?

"I'm here to buy something." Julie says, folding her arms.

"What are you looking for, then?" Tom asks, arching an eyebrow.

"I need to talk to you about this nonsense in the papers." Julie huffs, deflated. "She's not working with Grindelwald. She would never kill an entire village of muggles."

"I know." Tom lowers his voice to a whisper. "But what do you intend to do about it?"

"I…um…" Maybe this was a bad idea. Julie freezes up. Maybe he is the one who framed her. "I dunno. I just don't think it's fair, you know, her being locked up in Azkaban while she's innocent and all…"

"She's not _innocent_." Tom laughs to himself, then, blushes. "I mean she didn't do it."

"Do you have proof?" Julie looks hopeful.

"Um…" Tom looks over his shoulder to determine Borgin's location. He's still at he register, engrossed in his newspaper. Tom moves towards the back of the shop, waving Julie to follow him. "She was with me the day the town was destroyed. We were in a flat down the road, she was working on a potion, one of her healing things." Tom looks at Julie. "Why are you smiling?"

"I knew it. I always wanted to believe you weren't a creep." Julie says before clapping her hand over her mouth. Tom ignores her.

"But there's no evidence. The night she was arrested, something very strange happened. I was returning from the store when these…this… _thing_ attacked me. I can't…I haven't been able to talk to anyone about it…they…it…six mouths with one voice…I don't…" Tom stops, his heart quickening. He's afraid.

"What was it?" Julie whispers, wide-eyed.

"I don't _know_. That's the problem." Tom says angrily. "With her gone…there's so much I don't understand…"

"It's ok." Julie reaches out and pats Tom's shoulder. "It's gonna be ok. I know how much you meant to her. We've got to figure out how to help her." Tom flinches at Julie's touch, but tries to smile.

"Yeah. It's…complicated. Don't…I don't think we can…Listen, Julie. I know you're worried about your friend but please, don't do anything…drastic. Ok. Let me take care of this." Tom says.

"Ok. Yeah, ok. I don't really know what she got involved with so I guess it's better that I…" Julie thinks it through. Maybe she _was_ involved with Grindelwald though, and Tom knows about it. Could that be it? The last thing Julie needs is to get mixed up with people like that. "Thanks Tom, you're not such a bad guy after all."

"Bad?" Tom frowns. "I need to get back to work." Tom turns and walks back to the register. Borgin's left the paper on top of the counter, V's mugshot staring right back at Tom, her black eyes sunken, her mouth carved in a deep frown, her hair a stringy mess, and Tom's ring glinting on her left middle finger.

"Right. I'll just…go…" Julie walks past Tom, who doesn't acknowledge her exit, and slips through the door and back out into the street. 

* * *

A few days later, Julie and Kathleen met with the Lestranges for tea at a cute little shop in Diagon Alley. Although Kathleen had made her promise not to monopolize the conversation with talk of their friend-turned-mass-murderer, Julie couldn't help herself. After about ten minutes of idle small talk, mostly about the Lestrange's wedding, which Julie and Kathleen weren't invited to, Julie mentions the conversation she had with Tom earlier that week.

"I ran into Tom Riddle the other day. You know, he's so distraught about what happened to V. He said that she's innocent, but that things are complicated. I wonder…" Julie starts.

"Tom? When did you see him?" Lestrange sips his tea.

"Monday. Why?"

"He's gone." Lestrange says, "Dropped in on him yesterday, to tell him about the wedding. Said he wouldn't come, that weddings 'aren't his thing.' Such a weird bloke."

"He's jealous." Penelope says, giving her husband a quick peck on the cheek.

"Yeah, well I dropped in and he was gone. Borgin said he hadn't been in since Monday." Lestrange rolls his eyes.

"Do you think he might've…I dunno…" Julie instantly goes to the worst case scenario in her mind. "…done himself in?"

"Hah! Riddle? Kill himself over a _girl_?" Lestrange chokes on his tea. "Not a chance. Probably skipped town. I bet he's in with Grindelwald too, and the Ministry's hunting him down."

"Poor V." Penelope says, frowning. "She was such a…" She pauses, unable to think of a complement, "…resourceful girl."

"We can't let her just rot in prison for something she didn't do. We've got to get her out!" Julie bangs the table with her open hand. The three others regard her with annoyed looks. "I mean, who else will? We're the only people she ever talked to."

"She's probably guilty." Lestrange says, a malicious twinge in his thin smile.

"The ministry is handling it." Kathleen says. "They wouldn't lock someone up for life if there wasn't _sufficient proof_ that they're guilty." Everyone mediates on this for a moment.

"What if it's a conspiracy though!" Julie starts. Kathleen stands up.

"I can't participate in this conversation any longer. I'm going out to get some fresh air. Join me when you're ready." Kathleen says to Julie before bustling off.

"I should…go…" Julie gets up, "Congratulations on your marriage." She says unenthusiastically as she rushes outside to find Kathleen. She's not there.


	35. III: Hell is Empty

A/N: And so, here we go... Part III...

PART III

Chapter XXXV

Hell is Empty

[London | 1995]

* * *

"It was a big gamble, I'll admit…" Albus Dumbledore seats himself by the fire, shifting his robes about his feet, his back aching, his lips parched. The room is empty save for himself and Remus Lupin, who is distracting himself with the tea kettle. Poor guy, his hands won't stop shaking, despite such concerted effort. Lupin hands him a cup of tea and he takes it gratefully, setting the saucer down in front of him and raising the cup to his nose, taking a deep sniff. Earl Grey has such brightness, he thinks, even though it's color is so dark. The kitchen, it would seem, has become the strategy room of late, as everyone's in need of the comfort only the crackling fire and proximity of food can provide.

"Can I ask…Albus…what exactly _was_ your plan? Regarding Ms. Spektor?" Remus says, pouring a cup for himself, the letting the hot water run on to his hand. He knows it burns, but he doesn't care. "Forgive me but, it doesn't seem very logical…"

"Well…" Dumbledore's taken aback. It's not everyday someone questions his wisdom — at least, if the people in question are his friends. "I had stumbled across her case as I was researching. Of course, I immediately remembered her being one of my students, and then I remembered who her classmates were — one very important one in particular. I asked Minerva about her and she had some juicy gossip, which I will not repeat to you, but she also told me about her close friendship with Tom Riddle. They worked together often, and she was in that gang of Slytherins he went around with. I had to know more, naturally. Maybe she knew something important. I looked into her case some more and discovered there was no possible way she could have committed the murders the Ministry charged her with, as she had, during the exact time of murders themselves, been seen by the innkeeper at the Leaky Cauldron eating dinner with who else but Tom Riddle. This evidence was suppressed though, of course, during the trial, as was most of the evidence that would have exonerated her. The Ministry wanted to place the blame on someone, wanted to show the wizarding world they were doing _something_ to combat Grindelwald. She was a convenient scapegoat. I thought Tom Riddle might have also had an interest in suppressing the evidence, and I can now understand why… I was convinced she was one of the first death eaters, that he had discussed his early plans with her, and that he'd possibly told her things he hasn't told anyone else. It turns out I was correct, I suppose, I just didn't understand the full extent of what I'd stumbled upon."

"And what's that then?" Remus asks gloomily, the brightness of the bergamot doing nothing to lift his spirits.

"She was his _wife_ , Remus." Albus's voice is seeped with dread. "They were _married_."

"Wait, what? How? I thought you said…" Remus sets his cup down, thoroughly distracted from the other bad thoughts weighing on his mind. "Isn't that impossible? Hadn't you concluded it was impossible for him to love?"

"Yes. I did. But I was wrong." It visibly pains Albus to say these words.

"So…what? Now we've re-united him with his teenage bride and they're going to destroy the world as we know it?"

"I'm not sure. He let her sit in Azkaban for fifty years. In my dealings with her I sensed some anger there, some tension… Just because you're married doesn't mean you're happy about it."

"I'm sorry I just…can't…I just can't imagine…" Remus lets out an uncomfortable little laugh at the idea. He imagines them going on painfully awkward double dates with Lucius and Narcissa, babysitting Malfoy, taking their kid… "Wait, they don't…do they? Have a child? They don't have a child."

"I…hadn't thought…" Dumbledore says quietly, setting the teacup in it's saucer and placing his head in his hands. "I don't know."

"Merlin's beard — what if? It's possible, isn't it? That before she went to Azkaban… or now even?" Remus shudders at the thought of it. "Where is she?"

"She's dead, Remus." Dumbledore looks up at the drooping, sleepless face of his colleague.

"Right." Remus says, nodding. She went through the veil. Sirius also went through the veil. Naturally that means both of them are very much…dead. The pair fall silent, both sipping their tea, both locked in their own heads.

"Um…Professor?" Framed in the doorway is a rumpled and roughed-up Harry Potter, his eyes red around the rims, his mouth drooped in an imprisoning frown. "May I…"

"I should go see to the preparations…" Remus collects his empty teacup and places it near the sink. He gives Harry a sympathetic half-smile and Harry reciprocates. It's all either can manage. As he leaves the kitchen, Harry takes his vacated seat. Dumbledore continues to sip his tea, avoiding eye contact.

"Professor…" Harry starts. "That veil…Sirius…where did he…"

"I'm sorry, Harry." Dumbledore says solemnly, shaking his head. "He's gone to a place where no man has ever returned from."

"But what about Professor Spektor? She's there too…"

"And will suffer the same fate." Dumbledore says, when something hits him. A terrible realization. "Harry, did you notice…when you were with Professor Spektor in the Department of Mysteries, was she wearing a ring?" Harry thinks hard on this, and then remembers, when she took his hand, feeling the metal against his skin.

"Yes, she was." Harry says. "Why, is that important?"

"I'm afraid so…" Dumbledore says, withdrawing back within himself. "Harry, Professor Spektor is…no longer a member of the Order of the Phoenix."

"Obviously." Harry says.

"What I mean is, when she was at the Department of Mysteries, she was not there on our business. Harry, she withdrew her allegiance. She…" He looks at Harry, who's regarding him with a blank, if somewhat impatient, stare. "When she resigned, she gave me a memory. I've since viewed it and…I fear I put you in great danger."

"Ok." Harry says, waiting.

"Her name is not Victoria Spektor, Harry." Dumbledore skirts around the subject. "Her name is Victoria Riddle."

"Wait, what?" Harry yelps, confusion descending upon him, enveloping him, like a dark cloud. "You're saying she's his _sister_?"

"No, Harry. She's his wife." He finally gets it out. The anger in Harry is rising slowly, his hands clenching, his cheeks reddening.

"She said she was there to help me! But all along… And you _brought_ her to Hogwarts! Was she ever on our side? How could she be? His _wife_? Who could _love_ him? I thought you said he couldn't love! I thought you said that was one of his biggest weaknesses — why he almost destroyed himself trying to kill me. Because he didn't understand…" Harry rants. "So you're wrong about that, and it makes me wonder what else you've been wrong about! You act like you've got everything under control, that you understand every piece of the puzzle, and you bring _her_ into Hogwarts! She took me right to him, in the Department of Mysteries. He could have killed me, right then and there if it hadn't been for the Order showing up." He takes a break, his voice getting thin, his breath unsteady.

"Harry, please, take a deep breath." Dumbledore says, "I understand why you're upset with me. But you must understand, I cannot know everything. I do not claim to know everything. I'm merely trying my best to sort all this out. I value your trust, Harry, and I hope you can still find it within yourself to continue to trust me, because we have a lot of work to do before this is all over."

"Yeah, like what?" Harry slams his elbows on the table and thunks his forehead down on the hard wood surface, rattling Dumbledore's teacup in its saucer.

"The memory that Professor Spektor gave me, before she left, revealed some crucial information on how to defeat You-Know-Who." Dumbledore says.

"Wait, why would she do that?" Harry says to the table, slightly muffled.

"I'm not sure." Dumbledore says. "I don't understand her motives at all, I'm afraid. But I also suspect I'm not alone in that regard, or at least I hope."

"So what is it then? What's the big secret?"

"When he was young, when he and Victoria were at school together, they figured out how to perform a very rare, very dark piece of magic that enabled them to conceal bits of their souls within objects. The ring that Victoria wears is one of them."

"That's why my scar hurt when she shook my hand." Harry says, sitting up. "So as long as these objects are safe, he can't die?"

"Precisely. But we've got a problem. We don't know how many there are, or where they are. And the only one we're aware of is beyond the veil."

"Great." Harry huffs. "But if it feel beyond the veil, and if that killed her, wouldn't that kill the ring also?"

"Perhaps, but there's no way to know for sure…" Dumbledore says, standing up. "Harry, I think it best for you to rest now. I'm going to see what I can do…" Harry rises to his feet, his body a hunk of stone that would rather sink to the bottom of the ocean than climb the stairs to his bedroom.

* * *

V's laying flat on her back, caught upon the surface as though the floor had risen up to meet her. Hair a tangled nest beneath her skull, she tries to move but is already standing, it seems, her feet resting on a solid pane of thick nothing. The air catches in her lungs and it's absence echoes across the expanse of shimmery emptiness. She takes a step, and the ground rights itself and gravity readjusts, providing a vertigo unparalleled. After a moment of quiet self-adjustment, she is slammed with another body that's manifested itself straight through the floor. He's swinging wildly, his limbs clawing at the air, tears streaming from his eyes. His mouth moves but no sound comes out, just flapping lips, teeth gnashing at each other. She grabs his wrist and pulls him down to the proper floor.

"No! Harry! No! Wait! I'm…I've…died…I'm Dead! I'm…" Sirius follows the arm of the hand that's grabbed him all the way to its shoulder, to its neck, to its face. "Oh bloody hell, how'd I end up with _you_?"

"How did you…" V starts, looking at him curiously, "did I do a thing…to the…thing…?"

"What? I don't know what you did, but…wait, where are we?"

"We're in Hell."

"Ha. Very funny." Sirius barks.

"You're the only one laughing." V says, releasing his hand. He starts to float away again.

"Hey, wait, come back! I mean, bring me back! Stop whatever is happening!" Sirius cries. V reaches up and casually takes his hand and pulls him back down.

"You're not supposed to be here." She says, lacing her fingers through his. Her smile is one of devious pleasure. What an interesting twist…she thought she'd have far less entertaining company during this endeavor when she'd initially planned it. "Funny how this keeps happening. You turning up places you're not supposed to be, and me having to help you escape. What would you do without me, I wonder?"

"For the record, I did not ask for your help." Sirius scowls, his cheeks ruddy as he tries to wriggle his hand from her grasp.

"But you're going to need it." She tightens her grip. "Let's make a deal." She faces him, looking straight into his eyes. He tries to avoid her gaze but in the end loses out and becomes locked in her stare. "I help you get out of here, I bring you 'back to life' or whatever you want to call it, and you…" She smiles very broadly now, "help me die."

"What?" Sirius blinks.

"See, it's going to be too painful to do myself." She reaches down the front of her robes and pulls out a necklace with a glittering eye pendant dangling from the delicate chain fixed around her neck. "And I can't let _him_ know I've done it because…well…it's all very complicated but…it's for the best, really. I think. I mean, I don't really know what's going to happen, but…I would like you to do it."

"Um…you seem to be forgetting I'm actually _not a murderer_." Sirius says.

"Don't think of it as murder. Think of it as…just…ending a life…" V shrugs cheerfully.

"That's the _same thing_!" Sirius yelps.

"Do we have a deal?" She says, loosening her hold on Sirius' sweaty hand. His feet start to hover above the floor, and he feels himself being pulled upward by the scruff of the neck.

"Yes! Yes! Fine! It's a deal." Sirius hastily tightens his grip, heaving a deep breath.

"Good. Lets get out of here."

* * *

Their footsteps make hollow clinks on the invisible surface, which seems more like glass than anything else, except for when it starts melting. Crystal liquid pools around their feet, rippling outward into the darkness. The air feels less solid now, easier to breathe, as though they're somehow ascending from the depths of a cave, even though they appear to be walking in a straight line to nowhere.

"How do you know you're going the right way?" It feels like the sort of place you should whisper, so he does.

"Things get weird down here. There's…uh… there's no up and down, no left and right, no here and there, it just…is…." She muses. "You may be one place one moment, and blink, another the next, upside down, with your shoes missing. Not that there's _time_. There was never time. Do you feel it?"

"Feel what?"

"The passing of time?"

"How long have we been walking?"

"There's no way to say. We might have just begun, but maybe we have been walking forever. Maybe you've never done anything else."

"How do you know you're going the right way?"

"Do you feel yourself sinking?"

"It's harder to move."

"We're almost there."

* * *

They emerge from a hole in the ceiling and climb out of a deep pool set into a great slab of white marble. Their hands slap upon the white stone, the strange dry liquid sliding off their bodies and settling back into the wide circular hole — the dark mirror. Sirius slumps on the floor, breathing heavily and attempting to orient his brain. V stands before him with her arm outstretched and he takes her hand, which grounds him immediately. He briefly considers never letting go of her hand again. Wait, what? No. He shakes his head, then glances around the solid marble box enclosing them.

"Where are we?" Sirius whispers.

"The Observation Room." She says. "See that thing we just climbed out of? That acts sort of like a pensive." Sirius nods, not entirely getting it. He follows her over to a wall and watches her place her pale spindly hand upon the smooth stone, and staggers back a bit when the stone shifts to the side, allowing them to pass. The passage is lightless and cold and eerily quiet.

"Where is everybody?" Sirius asks as they enter a dimly lit room full floor to ceiling with filing cabinets. V smiles broadly and unleashes a cackling, almost gleeful laugh that reverberates caustically off the mass of steel surrounding them.

"Hell, my dear Sirius, is empty." She observes his face as it takes on an uncharacteristically worried look. "It always has been."

"But…but where are the…" He's putting the pieces together.

"Oh there are some here. But there aren't many of us." She starts reading the labels on the filing cabinets. "Due to stricter rules, and the subsequent 'cleansing,' there are only a handful left. The Guard runs the Embassy. The others, so I've heard, have retired."

"What's the Guard?" Sirius asks, watching V rifle through a cabinet. "Some sort of infernal law enforcement agency?"

"Something like that." V pauses thoughtfully, then continues her search. "To be honest, I'm not really sure _what_ the Guard is. But it's something. And it's fucking _terrifying_."

"Oh. Great." Sirius exhales, looking over his shoulder. The room remains empty, thankfully, except for the two of them. V plucks out a scroll and unfurls it. "So…what's that then?"

"My birth certificate. My records. The conclusive proof of my existence. All of it." She says quietly, rifling through the leaves of parchment. It's all there. Everything. She closes the cabinet, turns to face Sirius, draws her wand, and mutters _incendio_. The parchment in her hand goes up in flames, and she grins as she watches the fire consume it, inch by inch. Sirius' jaw slackens. She drops the last bits on the floor and grinds them under her foot. "Right. So… Your place, or mine?"

"What?"

"Mine it is. You'll have to excuse the mess. I wasn't expecting company." With her wand she draws a rectangle on the wall of cabinets facing them, and within the boundaries of her lines, a panel of reflective glass appears. She takes Sirius' hand again and drags him through the mirror, only to stumble a split-second later into a cramped, dim living room. The stench of stale alcohol permeates the place, which makes sense, as Sirius' eyes fall on about fifty or so empty or half-empty wine bottles strewn about the floor. Something squirms under his foot, and he jumps up in fright as the rat scurries on, only to be incinerated by V's quick reflexes. He thinks briefly on the fact that she just used the killing curse to snuff a rat, but tries not to dwell on it.

"Now then." V reaches behind her neck and unclasps the necklace. She holds it before her for a moment before handing it over to Sirius. He winces as it falls into his hand. "Ah, I feel lighter already." She sighs. "Shall we have a toast before you do the deed?" She peers around at the bottles at her feet, finds two that are roughly half full, and hands one to Sirius. He sniffs it apprehensively, but after observing V take a generous swig, he does as well. He's probably dead anyway, so what harm could it really do? He staggers back, the wine going straight to his brain. Wow. That's powerful stuff… He looks at the label and blinks about a dozen times.

"1437? You just have 500-some-odd-year-old bottles of wine just lying around then?"

"This is my grandfather's apartment. I took the liberty of helping myself to his wine cellar. It would be a crime to let it go to waste." V smiles and takes another swig. "This one's from 1666. A very good year."

"Ah. Right. Of course." Sirius laughs. "Are you sure…you really want me to kill you, right? You can change your mind, you know, at any time." Sirius surveys her apprehensively.

"Oh, don't tell me you _like_ me now." V rolls her eyes. "Although, that wouldn't really be a recent development, would it?" She smiles devilishly. Sirius crushes his fist around the necklace, scowling.

"You're wrong. I'm a good person." Sirius shouts. "That's all."

"You could be a bad person." She sets her bottle on the floor and takes a step closer. He stands still, breath shallow, bones of solid stone. "If you wanted to." She whispers, her lips just brushing his ear. He shudders. Her hand clasps around the fist he's made. "But it's not really _bad_ , is it? If it's for…"

"The greater good." Sirius spits, turning his head sharply to face her straight on, their noses mere centimeters apart. "I'm not a murderer."

"This isn't murder." V says softly. "It's freedom." She plants a very soft, very light kiss on Sirius' lips. His knees weaken and threaten the stability of his entire posture. When he tries to kiss her again, she steps away, that infuriating smile on her face. "Please, Sirius."

"How am I supposed to do this then?" He asks, breathless.

"I think this'll do." V walks to the mantle and takes down a small brass gavel. "Just give it a whack." She hands the instrument to Sirius and he drops it on the floor, yelping in pain, a long red scar appearing on his palm from where he tried to grasp the handle. "Sorry. Ok…Use this." She goes into the kitchen and returns with an oven mitt. Sirius slips the oven mitt over his hand and picks up the gavel again. He then drops the necklace on the coffee table, kneels down, and, after gauging the heft of the instrument and the force he thinks necessary to bestow, he lets the thing slam down on the pendant.

There's a deafening shriek that seems far away and all encompassing all at once, and the two are surrounded in a cloud of thick black smoke. Sirius coughs violently, dropping the gavel on the ground and batting the air with the oven mitt. The smoke clears and V has collapsed on the couch. Sirius rushes over to her and shakes her arm, but she doesn't respond. He searches for a pulse in her neck, but there is none.

"V? Hey, come on. What do I do now? We didn't…you didn't tell me what happens next! If you're dead, am I alive? Are you more dead? Can you be deader than dead? Tell me!" Sirius whines, looking helplessly around the strange, filthy apartment. "Bloody hell." He slumps on the floor next to the couch and lays his head back on the cushion, staring up at the ceiling. "And I still don't know where on earth I am…"

"You're in Hell." Says a whisper in his ear. He whips his head to the left to see two black eyes blinking back at him.

"You! You…You're not…Oh my God…" Sirius gasps, clutching his hand to his chest. Silently, she sits up on the couch, stretching her limbs, letting out a big yawn. Sirius remains on the floor, blinking up at her. She then slips down beside him, looking deep into his eyes. "So what are we then? Dead still?" Sirius stammers. V shakes her head slowly, places her hand on his thigh, and leans in to kiss him. There's something different about her kiss, Sirius notices, although he'd be embarrassed to admit it…because it is a very _good_ kind of different. Unlike anything he's ever experienced before. The only thing he can liken it to is that one time he and James ran into that muggle farmer's electric fence by accident while playing Quidditch. His hair stood on end for weeks afterward.

"And now, my end of the bargain." She says softly, her hand inching higher on his thigh, her lips upon his again. Oh…he's done for. "Where would you like to go? I can take you anywhere in the world. Just name it."

"Um…uh…" Sirius stammers. "Back to the Order. Back to Grimmauld Place."

"Back to your parents' house?" She smiles. "Well…that's the last place _I'd_ want to go, but…It's _your_ life…"


	36. III: Disorder

.

XXXVI  
Disorder  
[London | April 1995]

* * *

"Oh don't look so glum." Bellatrix Lestrange sing-songs, skipping into the sitting room, her wild curls bouncing manically. Lord Voldemort doesn't look at her, but continues to focus on the book in his hands, the weird old French childrens book V left. "What'cha reading? Is it any good?" Bellatrix perches herself on the arm of the chair, leaning over with feigned interest, her hair falling in his face. He remains silent, still, and completely ignores her. "Come _on_ , quit acting like it was _me_. She did it herself. I always knew she was one of those…you know…those suicidals who need like a big audience, all the drama…"

"You're wrong." He says coldly.

"She's dead! Get over it! You know who's not dead?" She smiles to herself.

"Don't test me." He slams the book shut, making her jump.

"My Lord, excuse me but, this just came for you…" Lucius Malfoy cautiously enters the room, and pauses after receiving a sharp glance from Bellatrix.

"Bring it here, Lucius." He orders, in an icy monotone. Lucius approaches and hands Lord Voldemort the envelope.

"My deepest sympathies, My Lord." Lucius says, bowing slightly. "If I lost my wife I would be devastated…"

"Do not speak of things you don't understand, Lucius." Voldemort says harshly. "It was much more than…I will never…" Suddenly, his voice becomes quieter, as though speaking to himself. "What's the point of living forever if…With people like _this_ …." Lucius and Bellatrix exchange looks of extreme unease.

"My Lord, I didn't mean to…" Lucius stammers. Voldemort looks up at him as though he's surprised Lucius is still there.

"I know you don't value the notion of privacy, Lucius, but I suggest you familiarize yourself with the concept as soon as you find convenient." He then turns his attention to the envelope, and Lucius quickly exits the room, taking Bellatrix with him. The paper is thick and crisp white, sealed with wax imprinted with an inverted pentagram circumscribed with a snake biting its own tail. He hesitates, knowing the symbol, but unsure of what sort of news awaits him inside. Hell has never contacted him directly. But what if…

He breaks the seal and withdraws a single sheet of parchment with a crude drawing of a left hand with six fingers. Affixed to the palm of the hand is a key. Voldemort stares at this for a long time, contemplating the likelihood that this is a trap. Perhaps it is. But he has to know, one way or another. _What if_ …

"Lucius!" He shouts, and Lucius comes stumbling forward hastily. "How did you receive this? Where's the owl that delivered this?"

"It wasn't delivered by an owl." Lucius says. "It was on the table in the foyer."

"Under the mirror?"

"Yes."

That was all he needed. He rises from the armchair, places the book on the side table, and vanishes with a crack.

* * *

A small group of people stand in a circle with their heads bowed, each holding a candle. Thick silence blankets them all, and 12 Grimmauld Place as a whole. Dumbledore is the first to speak.

"We are gathered here today to pay tribute to Sirius Black, a brave and intrepid soul who gave his life for our noble cause." Dumbledore says.

"He was a treasured friend." Remus sniffles. "Loyal and true to the end. I'll never forget when he…" They all fall silent again. Something's stirring in the hallway. Kreacher perhaps? All eyes are on the door when, who else but Sirius Black enters, followed by that horrible woman, Victoria Spektor.

"It appears you're late to your funeral." V whispers to Sirius. "How embarrassing."

"This is for me?" Sirius says, tears springing from his eyes.

"What is this magic?" Dumbledore demands, his tone harsh, his face contorted in anger, stepping forward and drawing his wand.

"No magic." V says, "There was a mistake, and I corrected it. That's all."

"You can't bring someone back from the dead!" Dumbledore shouts.

"You're absolutely right. _You_ can't." V smiles.

"Everyone, just, stand back. Sirius, stay there. Don't move." Dumbledore aims his wand at V.

"Albus, it's ok. I'm alive. I was trapped in Hell for a bit but she rescued me." Sirius says, stepping forward.

"Don't move!" Dumbledore orders. Sirius halts, frowning. "She's gotten to you. She's not to be trusted, Sirius, you _know_ this!"

" _You_ trusted her." Sirius says.

"I was wrong!" Dumbledore roars. Nobody's ever seen the man this angry before.

"Were you? You're rarely ever wrong, Albus." V says. Dumbledore casts a stunning spell on her, but she raises her hand and blocks it, deflecting it aside. "Maybe you're just confused. I can explain, if you want."

"Not another word from you." Dumbledore tries again, but she blocks his spell.

"I'm afraid I don't have time to stay, but I trust you'll take good care of Sirius. He'll need plenty of rest after what he's just been through." V says, and backs towards the door.

Dumbledore fires another spell at her, which she reflects back at him with a quick wave of her hand. He doges it, but just barely. The hem of his robe starts to burn, and he stamps it out angrily. When he looks back up, she's gone.

"You all look so happy to see me." Sirius says, frowning. Harry rushes forward to embrace his godfather but Dumbledore blocks him, standing between Sirius and the rest of the Order.

"As a precaution, I will take Sirius upstairs and question him. I don't want any of you speaking with him until I've deemed it safe." Dumbledore orders. Nobody says a word. And with that, he leads Sirius out of the living room and up the stairs to his old childhood bedroom.

* * *

V steps through the mirror into her grandfather's living room to see a very familiar figure seated on the couch, helping himself to a bottle of wine. He stands immediately, dropping the bottle on the floor, which breaks into shards and leaks thick red wine all over the carpet, and rushes to her, his hands on her within seconds.

"It's you. It's you." He stammers frantically.

"It's me." She beams. He sweeps her up in his arms and kisses her deeply.

"I knew you didn't…You couldn't…" He says breathlessly, holding her tightly, but still not tight enough.

"To be honest, this was not the sort of reception I was expecting." She says, "But I'll take it." She wraps her arms around his shoulders.

"I…couldn't…" He struggles to put the feeling into words. "When I thought you were…dead…I couldn't….what would I do?"

"The same thing you did while you let me rot in Azkaban for fifty years." She says, shrugging.

"I always intended to come for you. I was just waiting for the right time." He says. "You were safer in there than you would have been with me."

"That is true…That's why I didn't bother to escape..." She says, remaining cool despite the fact that he's just said the one thing she's always wanted to hear him say — the one thing she'd been doubting all these years…

"I don't want to live forever if I can't live with you." He says. And in that moment she sees the boy he used to be, the boy she fell in love with at Hogwarts all those years ago.

"You know I will never let you forget you just said that." She says, grinning from ear to ear, placing a bony finger on his chest just over his heart, as if to say, see you _do_ actually have one. "I love you, Tom."

"And I love you." He says, placing her back down, her feet sinking into the moldy, wine-stained carpet. Drawing her close, his body pressed against hers, he kisses her lips, her cheek, the tender patch just below her ear, then down her neck, her collarbone… She cups his face in her hand, giving him pause.

"Why don't I give you the tour?" She says, "Let's start in the bedroom." She laces her fingers through his and tugs him towards the hallway.

* * *

"You're going to have to do something about the state of this place." He props himself up against the headboard of the ancient brass bed, the candle on the nightstand the only light in the windowless room.

"Sorry it's not up to the Malfoys' standards." V says, leaning her head on his shoulder. "But they have a house elf, and I…am a mess."

"To put it mildly." He laughs. "I could get you one. A house elf."

"I don't know…" She sighs, waving her hand as if to dismiss the thought.

"What happened to your grandfather?" He asks, already assuming the answer.

"We made a deal." She says simply. "I have something to ask you."

"Yes?"

"This Harry Potter business…"

"You heard the prophecy. I have no more to say about it." He says firmly.

"I understand. I just want to be clear that I will absolutely not be a part of it."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that. Whatever you have to sort out is between you two. I refuse to be involved."

"You do understand that the 'business' is one of us killing the other?" He sits up further, narrowing his eyes. V sits up as well, squaring off.

"And I believe you will be successful. And, in the off chance you're not…" She holds up her finger, and rises from the bed. He watches her lithe figure as it slithers from the room, to return moments later with a roll of parchment. "I have devised a plan."

"Ah." He says, regaining interest. "Lets see…" He unfurls the scroll and his eyes dart back and forth over the surface. "A contract?"

"Yes. For me to be your official representative in the afterlife." She says, settling back down next to him. "I mean, you are going to Hell. I hope you've come to terms with that by now."

"But you've been ostracized. Blacklisted…" He says skeptically, glancing back over the provisions.

"You underestimate the extreme, binding power contracts have in Hell." She says, grinning at her own cleverness. "Devils value a signed piece of paper more than any other fact or circumstance or piece of evidence you could present them with."

"I see." He grins as well. "And this would mean…"

"Even if Harry Potter kills you, arrangements can be made…"

"Have I told you how much I love you?" He lowers the parchment and locks eyes with her.

"Several times already, yes." She says as he descends upon her. "You have to _sign_ it though." She hands the parchment back to him, and offers him a quill. He takes it and signs his name, his given name, Tom Marvolo Riddle. There's a sharp pain on the back of his hand, and upon closer examination, the ink does appear to be the same color as his blood.

"Nicked it from Umbridge." V says, taking the quill back and rolling up the parchment. "Clever little thing…"


End file.
